“Would you like to know the sex?” Dr. Thrace asked the next morning, during her medical checkup. She was a beautiful woman, blonde and rough around the edges but also enthusiastic over Grace’s pregnancy.
Her question inspired an unexpected burst of joy between them. For the first time that day, Grace smiled. “Tell me.”
Dr. Thrace handed her the ultrascope visor. “You’re having a girl. A beautiful baby girl.”
A MEMORY (HIM)
THESE ARE THE FORMATIVE MOMENTS, the ones a man, even a worthless failsafe, will never forget. There are few people left in Dex’s world now, and he shuns the heterosexual community, because he is growing afraid of building associations that could be misconstrued by the government as threatening.
“He was a good boy,” his mother Roberta says, standing next to him, watching as Bobby Salinger’s father opens the urn. Bobby’s ashes fall into the Rum River. He was raped and murdered by three police officers on the fifth day of his job at the South Minneapolis detention center. Rumor had it he had not partaken in the initiation orgy for new recruits, the rest of whom were normal homosexuals who had embraced the tradition.
“I told him he was stupid to try to be a cop,” Dex replies. “The only hetero cop in a building full of faggot pigs.”
He has to whisper; Bobby’s father is less than twenty feet away, with the rest of the family. Officer Salinger has been met by cold stares from his own department; nobody is taking responsibility for his son’s death.
“But he was right to hope,” Roberta says. “He was working for an ideal.”
“Same ideal you worked for by not telling me I was a failsafe,” Dex replies. “There are just certain realities you can’t ignore, Mom.” Next to the river, guttural sobs rise from Bobby’s father, who is on his knees in the dirt, holding the empty urn.
Tears are falling down Roberta’s face. “I didn’t want my child to be told what or who to be, because that’s what brings about these mindless atrocities!” she tells Dex with gritted teeth. “I was doing it because I needed to be the light I wanted to see in the world. That’s what your friend Bobby was doing as well.”
“And look at the price he paid.”
“Yes, look at it. What will you remember him for? Being scared and hiding, or being brave and hoping?” Roberta turns out of Dex’s embrace. He knows she loves him too much to be angry, and their argument about his engineering and upbringing is one beaten to death. He sees her point, but today, he is watching his best friend become river mud and wondering what could possibly spark a person to be so idealistic, so brave. Was it something in oneself? Was it God? Was it all some sort of cosmic joke? These are not new questions, either for him or for human history.
But they remain unanswered.
Dex turns to follow his mother away from the funeral. He wants to say goodbye to Officer Salinger, wish him a happy life, and tell him they won’t be seeing each other again, but he does not. Salinger has been like a father to him, if that is what fathers are like, but it is his fault Bobby is dead. He encouraged his son, and now they are here, next to the river, watching the young man’s ashes disappear downstream. The gap left in Dex’s path by Bobby’s death is a black sinkhole he must learn to step around, impossible as it seems. But there is only more coming—more death, more pain. Where in that is the light his mother spoke of?
CHAPTER 48 (HIM)
DEX WHEELOCK, known to the world now as Marcus Flint and dead forever to the mothers who had raised him, could barely endure the low hum of the maglev train from Kansas City to Minneapolis. But there were windows on this train, and seats. No holes, no heat, no chemicals to burn his eyes. When the Mississippi River finally appeared in the low fog outside the train’s right side, Dex felt a rush of serenity about the decisions he had made. After thirteen days in Kansas City, he was going home, and he had already called Linda Glass to set up a meeting with Stuart Jarvis for that evening. Sam had insisted Dex remain in Kansas City until his burns and gashes healed enough to be inconspicuous. They switched hotels three times after the Queens of the Midwest convention ended, and they refused to let Dex pay with money from his new account for fear that the TruthChip replacement had been a scam. On the eighteenth of February, however, Dex scanned his wrist to buy a jar of peanut butter, and the identification and payment worked perfectly.
Moses had examined Dex in their hotel room later that morning. “Can’t even tell they put a new chip in you. Those burns up top aren’t too obvious anymore either. Worst-case scenario, you can wear a hat and cover most of them up.”
Sam paced back and forth. “But if anyone does notice them, they might recognize you from the WorldCom reports.” The two men had fretted over Dex and discussed every possible downfall he might face if he took the train to Minneapolis, but finally, they had to let him go. Both men attempted to hold back tears outside the train station’s military checkpoint. It was the huskier of the two who failed.
“You be careful,” Moses told Dex, kissing his forehead. He wiped his eyes quickly. “I know it’s only been a few weeks, but you’ve given me reason to feel good again.”
Dex held the man close. “You too, Moses. Thank you.”
And Sam, squeezing Dex in a hug, whispered, “Thank you for sleeping on our front porch! You’ve been a light in our world, I hope you know. Your mothers were lucky to have you. We’ll try to get in touch with them as soon as it seems safe.”
“I’m going to make it up to you if I can,” Dex said. “I’ll wire a fund transfer pass to one of your coms, if I can ever find the money.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Moses commanded, sniffing and wiping his tears.
“Yes, I will. If I find a way. You both saved my life.”
They had purchased Dex a new pocket com and entered all of their contact information, so it was now up to him to stay in touch. Yet the underlying threat to their goodbye tore at Dex’s gut. There was still a chance the Bio Police had tracked him to their house, and if that was indeed the case, they would have to face questions and possible detainment. Both Moses and Sam had downplayed the possibility in front of Dex, but he could see under their bittersweet goodbye that a return to their old life would mean facing the potential consequences of everything they had done for him.
“If all goes to hell, say hi to Efron for us,” Moses said with a grin.
“Let us know when you get there safe,” Sam said. “We love you, Dexy. Oh, and remember . . . look all those guards in the eyes, and give them a ‘fuck me’ look. They won’t bat an eyelash.”
True to Sam’s prediction, he passed the military checkpoint with flying colors. The soldiers patrolling public areas were dressed in dazzling rainbow faux-camouflage, their standard non-combat attire. Dex locked eyes with the soldier who scanned his new bar code and patted him down for hidden explosives. The man spent an extra second feeling Dex’s crotch, which, seeing as it had been weeks since his last orgasm, complied by being more firm than usual.
His new TruthChip performed with admirable normality, and nobody appeared to recognize his face. Flevin and Chaos had done an exceptional job in establishing a new identity for him, and if he survived the trip long enough to see Linda Glass and Stuart Jarvis, it would be worth the financial pain he had caused Sam and Moses Archer. He had not mentioned it to them for fear the plan would not work, but Dex had resolved not only to seek Stuart Jarvis’s forgiveness for leaving Grace but also to set his needs bare and ask the man for money to repay Sam and Moses. It was the only possible way for the two farmers to regain their loss. They were not expecting it, but money was money, and if Stuart would give without caring and the Archers could replenish their savings, it would rectify at least a small percentage of Dex’s mistakes. The obstacle was, of course, Stuart. Whether he could ever forgive Dex for having abandoned his pregnant, frightened daughter was the question hanging in the rafters.
The trip to Minneapolis took less than three hours. During the ride, a uniformed soldier carrying a sonic rifle took
a seat across from Dex. He had dark hair, a protruding jaw, and a gentle smile. Channeling Sam, Dex looked him in the eye, nodded, then checked out his physique. The man did the same to Dex.
“You’re pretty brave to be traveling, huh?” he said.
“Been stuck in Kansas City since the attacks,” Dex replied.
“Man, I hear you. Nice that they opened the trains back up, anyway.”
The soldier grinned, and his eyes lingered on Dex.
Best to keep making conversation and keep up the flirting. He can’t expect me to hook up when he’s on patrol.
“So, where are you stationed?” Dex asked.
“A hotel in downtown Minneapolis. I’m on a volunteer basis. I went through basic training back in the day, but I’m actually an accountant. My office in Minneapolis and my condo were damaged during the bombings, so now I’m out of work and a house for the time being. Military volunteering is my best option right now.” After a slight lull in their conversation, the soldier said, “I’m off duty tonight. You interested in getting together? I’m a top.”
Damn it.
“I’m a top too,” Dex replied, faking a regretful shrug.
“Aw, fuck,” the soldier said. He stood up. “I’ll find somebody else. Have a good night, man. I’ll be hanging out at Rapture if they’re back open yet, in case you change your mind. People need to get their rocks off, even if the world is shot to shit. See you if I see you.”
“Maybe you will.”
The soldier offered Dex a friendly salute. “Peace, brother.” He turned to resume his security rounds.
Peace. It was a dead possibility as long as humanity survived. He almost felt sorry for the man, who seemed kind enough apart from the orders his uniform forced him to live by. Under the government’s new standards, he and Dex were complete opposites, enemies to the death. Stripped of such labels and ideals, however, they were just two men making friendly conversation on a train ride to Minneapolis.
All intercity trains arrived at the Warehouse Station Depot, where passengers had to scan their TruthChips at an exit checkpoint. Dex had used his new chip at least a dozen times since leaving the hotel in Kansas City, but he could not yet present it without experiencing a dither of terror. For some reason, it always brought him back to the train car: scrambling, burning, screaming to get out—the consequence of being caught. Minneapolis was the type of city where it was easy to cross paths with someone familiar. It was a risk to be coming back. Dex took a deep breath and approached the soldier he had visited with earlier. They smiled at each other as he held out his wrist and scanned it.
“Stay safe,” the soldier said.
As Dex ascended Warehouse Station’s escalators to Washington Avenue, he heard the systematized clamor of marching feet and the raised voices of children. The majority sounded as though they belonged to young boys, chanting the same two phrases over and over.
“Support the Colors, wipe out the Others! Support the Colors, wipe out the Others!”
The Gay Youth.
As Dex’s eye line rose with the stairs to street level, he saw a flowing wall of children dressed in purple uniforms, sporting rainbow striped bands around their right arms. Some had hats to fend off the snow, which had replaced the rain that was falling farther south, and some had their heads exposed to the elements. They were parading down Washington Avenue in front of Colors Park, holding candles and surrounding a flatbed hydro truck doubling as a stage on wheels. Three older boys were standing on it holding spiked metal clubs. As one of them moved to reveal the center of the stage, Dex realized what he had stepped into.
It was an execution. This time, it was still in progress.
Three men, presumably failsafes, were naked and chained to a single wooden column in the middle of the stage. Their genitals had been cut off. Lit by blinding LED lights mounted on the truck’s cab, they were screaming, trying to hide their bodies, and being met only by cheers and jeers as the chanting dwindled.
Horror caught in Dex’s throat as one of the teenage boys on stage raised his club.
“Do you know what these men are?” he screamed. He must have been wearing a microphone, because his voice boomed into the cold, cloudy night.
“Breeders!” the crowd of children replied. The teenager brought the club down in a terrible arc and bludgeoned the nearest man, then circled the pillar and battered the two others. The spikes ripped into their heads, then pulled out bits of flesh upon their withdrawal. Two of the men fell, swinging on their chains around the column. The third had survived and was using his chain to swing away.
The young man with the club raised it again. “Caught this morning trying to buy their way out of their social assessments! Trying to hide from their crimes!” Down came the club again, and the third man, soaked red, went limp and dangled with the others. The crowd cheered, then resumed its chant.
In a panic, Dex walked southeast on Washington, toward the city center. He needed to find a cab out to the suburbs. As the blocks passed under his feet, however, all he could see were the three men being bludgeoned, over and over, knowing it could be him if he took the slightest misstep. When he finally looked up, Dex noticed military patrols on every corner. Save for a few bystanders hopping in line with the Gay Youth, he was the only person walking, and it was against the flow of children.
He was making himself conspicuous.
There was no way he could help those ill-fated men on the stage. Forcing composure on himself, Dex stopped for a red traffic light, even though the streets were blocked for the marching children and there were no cars. Candlelight dotted the visible stretch of Washington Avenue, and try as he might to see the end of it, more children, hundreds yet, were coming. In the mass of it was a bright spot, moving closer: a second execution stage.
Jesus Christ. Get out of here!
He turned back around to face the direction of Warehouse Station. The parade turned left a block past Colors Park, up Sixth Avenue, which meant the streets might be open for him to hail a cab on Seventh.
Dex began walking back the way he had come, along the parade’s periphery. He passed Colors Park and broke off from the group as they turned left. The children’s chanting of “Support the Colors, wipe out the Others!” grew more subdued as he left the parade behind.
Except there was one voice behind him, chanting. It did not dwindle with the others, and footsteps followed it.
Dex turned his neck, and under the bobbing glow of a handheld candle thirty feet behind him was the pale, bony face of Lars Jarvis.
“Support the Colors, wipe out the Others!” he screamed one final time, then grew silent.
By pure happenstance, Dex’s luck had just run out. He could only play dumb and hope this was happening for a reason. Turning back on his way, he offered the boy a confused chuckle as he hid his face and began walking. But Lars screamed after him.
“Where did you take my aunt Grace?”
Dex froze. He turned around again, hoping his act could hold up against the perceptive boy. “Excuse me?”
“I know who you are,” Lars hissed. “You and Grace disappeared, and then I saw your face on the news! You think you look different with a shaved head and a trench coat? I saw you come out of the train station!”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Dex said. “Do I know you?”
“Do you think I’m stupid? You’re Dexter Michael Wheelock, age thirty-seven, height five-foot-three, birthday on September nineteenth, 2347. Failsafe, and prisoner of the NRO. I had Daryl look you up on his friend’s database after we saw you on WorldCom!”
“My named is Marc,” Dex said, at a loss, his heart pounding.
But Lars shook his head. “No, you ate at my grandparents’ dinner table. You got my aunt Grace pregnant. You two are breeders!”
It was pointless to refute the boy; there was no fooling him. Behind him, the Gay Youth were moving on, marching and chanting as the failsafes on the second stage screamed for mercy. Lars stared into Dex’s eye
s, and for a moment, they stood head to head in an intimate battle of the wills. It was the boy’s ruthlessness that dared Dex to run, and Dex’s utter sorrow that dared the boy to remain silent. Less than a hundred yards behind him was a pair of uniformed soldiers, casually strutting toward them.
Dex had one chance, and he had to act fast. He began walking slowly toward Lars. Despite the boy’s perfectly sculpted adherence to this culture of hate, he possessed a potential vulnerability. Dex had witnessed it at dinner the night they met: Lars had been attracted to him, intimidated. For whatever reason, Dex had broken through his tack-sharp personality and exposed a thread of insecurity.
“If you come any closer, I’ll scream,” Lars said. His voice had broken under a mixture of hoarseness and fear, and Dex saw him shudder. Closer, what had appeared to be the boy’s ruthlessness was clearer: the look in Lars’s wide eyes was frantic, unpredictable. The atrocities he had witnessed since their last meeting, the reality of hate, seemed to have unraveled him.
“You would have turned me in already,” Dex replied. His heart was pounding, and to show his fear would be his undoing. The soldiers were getting closer; each wore a loaded gun belt. Lars stood his ground, but his pale face, flirting with darkness over the fluttering candlelight, was quivering with terror.
Dex reached him in ten steps. “You came after me because you hoped I could give you some comfort.”
The boy’s whole body was shaking now. He said nothing.
“Do you know your aunt Grace loved you, Lars? Even though you were a quiet and menacing kid, she loved you. She wanted the best for you.” Dex touched Lars’s shoulder, and the boy blinked, appearing for a moment to succumb to the gesture. “Now it seems to me that part of you cares if your aunt Grace is alive. Cares whether or not she’s been torn to shreds like the men on those stages. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have had the courage to come after me just now. I know you find me attractive. You’re at the age where you’d do anything to satisfy your curiosities about my body if given the chance.”
The Breeders Page 28