"We thank you, Mother, for this gift," he said. "John and I and Patrick and all the other Dakotan males shall bring it to maturity, but Vickie and Esther and Melody, our Dakota women, shall carry the sacred seed."
Ellery blinked at his poetic formality. "I don't understand," she said, tilting her head to the side.
"Papa Dakota wanted computer brains, Mother," Matthew continued. "We are much more than that." He gazed at his brother then at his sister. "We joined, Mother. Everything I know, have experienced, or felt, now belongs to Vickie and John and theirs belong to me."
"Everything?" Ellery gasped. "The pain, the injuries, the fears?"
All three nodded in unison, their faces solemn.
"It isn't madness Dakotans have to fear, Mother. It is the seepage of time or to put it more precisely, the seepage of time memory," Vickie said. "Without proper training, there is no way to control what we will let in or keep out, and that, in turn, could lead to insanity."
Matthew punctuated each statement with a nod. "Vickie's right. Seepage memory is much like a dream that comes—day or night. It is experienced as real time. As with a dream, we must know when it is now and when it is not. We are lucky. We found the way of entry, the way to know."
Ellery's head swung from one to the other and back to Vickie. "You, Victoria—did you experience this seepage, too?" The blue of her eyes seemed to fill her face. "In the past, Dakota women have only carried the gene," she whispered. "They have never heard the voices, nor felt the pain."
Vickie shook her head and looked deep into her mother's eyes. "No pain. No voices. Only the impressions." Her words trembled. "I felt a power, Mother," she said. "Every cell in my body responded to that power. It was as if I could hear eternity," she said. "Yet, I heard nothing at all."
Matthew said, "In the library mists, I can easily open books with a direct line connection to you, but there are hundreds of stacks I couldn't get to."
"Further than the eye can see," John broke in. "Shelves filled with volumes from floor to ceiling. All tightly sealed. But no more—we have found the key."
"Tonight, we will join with our cousins and establish a fountainhead. Tonight, we unseal the books." In his emotional intensity, Matthew's lavender eyes darkened to deepest purple with flashing bursts of wine colored sparks. "Then we'll teach them how to use the Chi to tap into the repository."
Ellery felt as if she walked on quicksand. She shook her head with bewilderment. "Repository?"
"Mendel's Web. The brain bud. Our legacy from the BH gene. A storehouse for ancestral memory. A hundred years into the past, Mother? My excursion to Papa Victor's lab is nothing compared to what we can do. We carry history within us, flawless history. Every word, every action, can be replayed exactly as it happened. As long as one Dakotan exists, all time exists."
"Dear God," Ellery whispered, staring from one to the other. Man was never meant to cross this threshold.
"We carry Truth, Mother." John added his voice to the explanation. "Like the Goddess Maat, our destiny is to know unalterable truth and be steadfast in that knowledge. Pa neter apu pa maat. God will judge the right. Dakotans will know it."
Ellery stared at her youngest son. John, as usual, couched his understanding in the language of his passionate love—ancient Egyptology. The import of what they were telling her brought with it a terrible sense of danger. Her children, so innocent in their new found wisdom, would be crucified on the cross of greed if it became known what they could do. Her eyes filled with tears and her heart filled with sorrow as she hugged them close to her.
"Do not tell anyone what you have just told me," she whispered. "Not even your cousins. You may join with them. You may teach them how to use the Chi. But you will not tell them what I have just heard."
She watched fog tendrils slip across the deck rail and slither along the floor to swirl around her kneeling children's legs. Fear clamped around her chest as she pulled them to their feet. In the far reaches of her mind, she heard a voice singing: Beware ye sailors in the night when a siren sings her song of delight.
Ellery shuddered. Papa's voice, Papa's song. She would not listen. She would not. Despite her attempt to block them from her thoughts, the words pressed forward until at last the melody played itself out. She opened the curtained door. "No one must know," she said fiercely, herding her children into the warmth of the living room. "Do you hear me? No one!" Ellery shoved the door closed and turned the lock. "Promise," she hissed.
Dumbfounded, they could only nod their heads.
Chapter 22
Bianca
Sitting at the desk in her laboratory, Bianca read the email labeled urgent a second time.
Mother died last night. Stroke. I don't know what to do. Can I come live with you, Bee? Please. I'm frightened in this big house all by myself. I love you. Sefura.
Grimacing, she stared at the screen.
"What the hell am I going to do with an eighteen year old?" she said to the room at large. "Especially one who's been wrapped in a silk cocoon most of her life." At the sound of her voice, high pitched squeals filled the laboratory. In the largest cage, a creature part ape, part hideous, cowered against the heavy bars. Bianca strolled toward the electrical rod of discipline. As she lifted the long, slender instrument off its stand, the creature swung its great head back and forth. Thin mewls escaped its lips.
"No? Are you telling me no?"
The animal slumped to the floor of the cage and brought ape arms over its head.
Laughing, she replaced the implement in its stand. "Your lucky day, my pet," she said, tapping the bars of the cage. "His Holiness expects to see some progress next week and progress he'll see."
A soft woof sounded. The scientist walked to another cage where a full-grown black shepherd licked gently at bandaged paws. She opened the door of the cage and brushed her hand along the dog's side. "You, my darling, you are my prize. I will present with you. This year, the Nobel belongs to me." She patted the dog's head, withdrew her hand, and locked the door. His eyes, so large and trusting, reminded her of her little sister's eyes.
She smiled as an image of Sefura—six years old and unsure—flashed into her memory; it was Sefura's first day at school. "You'll love school, Sef. I promise," she'd said as the child pulled back from the entry doors.
"If I need you, will you come get me?" The small voice trembled.
"Of course. If you need me, I'll come."
"You're not just saying that are you? So I won't cry?"
"No. I would never lie to you, Sefura. Not ever."
For her little sister, gazing up with large and trusting eyes, that was enough, Bianca thought. It was always enough.
Striding back to her desk, she sat down and once more read the displayed words. Her mind filled with her sister's name, her sister's face.
Sefura, with the golden-red hair and eyes the color of fresh mint. Sefura, with the turned up nose and new-cream skin. Sefura, the product of a drunken wastrel and a pathetic old woman pouring her wealth into cosmetic surgery trying to be young again.
Bianca's hands fisted white.
"You could have had a thousand face lifts, Mother, it wasn't you he wanted," she said, staring into space as if she could conjure up a hated thing with the strength of her bitterness.
Thoughts rampaged like angry bulls. How old was I when he began to teach? Six? No, seven. Seven years was all I had, little sister. Seven years of innocence and ten years of teaching until I wanted it more than he did. Memories bellowed into Bianca's mind. Memories of pain turning into such white-hot desire she couldn't control it.
She jumped up from her chair and began pacing the laboratory like a caged lioness. Another memory crowded its way forward. The knife, the blood, the horror on the pathetic old woman's face as she stared first at the gutted body lying on the bathroom floor, then at the penis Bianca held triumphantly on high.
He was going to teach you, too, little sister. I knew by the way he touched you. Her eyes swung from side to s
ide as she pressed her hands tight to her stomach. You were so young, so small. I had no choice, you know—he had to be stopped, had to be punished. Mother couldn't do it. She was too afraid he'd leave her. Bianca's laughter rolled across the room, choked to silence. "But I could, dear father Honeycutt," she whispered. "And I did. No one ever knew except the old woman and she was too terrified to tell."
Bianca's lip drew back as she remembered the fear in her mother's face when, together, they buried his body under a stand of pines, deep in the forest reserve that stretched miles behind their own land.
"You were so easy to control, Mother." The sound she made was harsh and brittle. "But then—you knew what I could do, didn't you?"
The divorce charade from a runaway gambler was never questioned. Casual acquaintances quickly became solicitous friends who often commented they were glad to see that Lydia Raborman, a woman with such breeding and wealth, had finally come to her senses. They soon fought each other for Lydia's acceptance of their soiree invitations and became willing references for daughter Bianca whenever called upon to do so.
Money can buy a lot of things, she thought. Not the least of which is unquestioned respectability.
She turned to the telescreen and tapped a long-distance number.
"I kept you safe then, little sister. I'll keep you safe now," she muttered. She would need larger quarters, new furniture, and another wall screen. Sef would have to complete her education. In a real school, though. None of those rarefied finishing school tutors that Lydia insisted on having. Already Bianca's spirits were lifting. A soft voice chopped off the dazzle patterns of the dialing code. Sefura's pale face and sad eyes appeared on the screen.
"Sefura Raborman."
Bianca touched the switch that would project her own image across the miles. She watched the tears begin to flow down the girl's cheeks.
"Oh, Bee—is it really you?"
"I told you I would be here for you if you needed me. Why didn't you call me?"
"I couldn't find your number. And I couldn't stop crying."
"Well, I'm here now. Wipe away your tears and start packing. A couple of days should be enough time for you to have everything together. I'll arrange your flight accordingly."
"What about Mother's . . . Mother's funeral?"
"A formality, Sefura. I'll take care of it."
"Will you be here to say good-bye?"
"No." Seeing the dismay on her sister's face, Bianca softened. "Listen Sef, my current research assignment has reached a crucial stage and I simply cannot take time off right now. I know you love your mother, but she is no longer there, and what you say good-bye to is what you'll always think of. It's better for you to remember her the way she was, not the way she is. Do you understand?"
The tears welled again, but Sefura nodded.
"Good. I'll be at the airport when you arrive." She allowed herself to smile. "Now, get busy. I have a million things to do." Without further conversation, she switched off the screen.
She had things to do all right, but making burial arrangements and settling an estate wasn't one of them. It was time for the Raborman attorneys to start earning their money.
Thirty minutes later the arrangements were completed. Sefura would arrive within the week—two days before his Holiness returned to the city.
She tapped a pencil against her desk calendar. With her little sister's coming, she had to speed up her plans. The frequent trips to the city would have to cease, which meant George Kayman must be quartered on the island before her sister arrived.
Bianca's lip curled. If Frederick Lamont had just once set his greed aside, just once told her mother that surgery wasn't the answer to age, perhaps . . .
But he didn't.
For that, the Lamont family had to pay. Every last one of them: the good doctor, his grandson Trevor, his daughter Cathy, and his son-in-law, George Kayman. Except for George, they were all dead, now.
Three years past, the daughter and grandson suffered fatal injuries. Driving a stolen automobile, a vagrant under the influence of Pandora Blue had plummeted down Duboce Avenue, broad sided the Jaguar, and exploded. A tragic accident, the media reported. A dangerous drug in the hands of a novice, said the coroner—one that caused the mind to accept and act on any given command. Invaluable in the treatment of paranoid schizophrenia, it had recently become the illegal drug of choice on the street. Whatever visions drove that vagrant into such a frenzy—Pandora Blue was the culprit.
A year ago, Lamont himself had died from a pistol shot to the head. Despondent over his daughter's death, he had committed suicide, said the newscasters.
Last month, she knew the time had come for George Kayman to take his place in history. Unlike Victor Dakota, she was not afraid to unleash the full potential contained in DNA manipulation. Although they didn’t know it yet, the Transnationals were going to get their men-of-war; not artificial organisms and not stepped-up hybrids like the Dakotan brood, but an entirely separate species—skilled, ruthless, and intelligent. The ape in her laboratory had done its job; the genetic codes worked. The time for moving forward had arrived. Where Nature had Neanderthal, Bianca Raborman had George Kayman.
She had made a few phone calls to acquaintances who had—or knew someone who had—used the expertise of the Kayman Media Specialists group. She needed his expertise on a project she was working on and she'd heard the man was good—would they recommend? Oh, yes, they said. Mister Kayman was creative and intelligent—although a touch volatile when crossed. Lost his mother when he was just a boy. A self-made man with a penchant for luxury, they said. He came from a poor family, you know. No, they didn't know where he could be found. He'd dropped out of sight after his wife died. Rumor was . . .
At a cocktail party held by Doctor Berkstan and his associates, she spotted a former intimate and with artful questions, turned the conversation to George. He shook his head as he spoke of Kayman's impotence and his subsequent decline in stature. A real shame, he'd said. A brilliant man before the alcohol got him. Now he calls that gazebo in the park home. She had nearly danced a jig when she heard the story. George Kayman, the last Lamont family member, was intelligent, acquisitive, and a vagrant. He was also a drunk. Somehow, that seemed fitting. Appropriate. A perfect subject for her new project. Her revenge was complete.
Remembering the night she'd found him, she could almost feel again the texture of his drink-thin body, the sexual excitement that had engulfed her when his odors eddied around her: the sourness of him, the pungent smell of whisky, the muskiness of his groin when she reached between his legs. Even his shock at her boldness had produced a smell she reveled in. His limp penis had energized her—she would make it hard. She would! She wanted to fuck him, she wanted to bite and scratch and fuck until his flaccid member bled, until he begged her to stop, until he sucked his last breath from throbbing genitals pressed tight against his face.
Bianca wiped her mouth at the memory. She had nearly lost control that night, for the first time in a long time. Only the faint, shrill voice of her objective had forced her away from his trapped body. The need had raged, demanded surfeit, but she refused to give in. There had been others like him who had tasted her rage. She had left them in garbage bins, in alleys, stretched naked alongside dark streets. Unsung statistics in big cities.
She had taken the cabin cruiser across the dark waters five times since her Christmas search had found him. The minute she told him her name, his belligerence softened into willing agreement to listen. She ensconced him at the Fairmont Arms, dressed him in soft wool, silk shirts, and sleek shoes of Italian leather. Then, she presented her business proposition. He had balked at the idea of putting together his kind of campaign for a mere virility enhancement program; on the other hand, a tobacco contract was smoke worth pursuing. Even her offer to let him participate, cost free, in the libido program made no difference—he didn't need enhancing, he said. He had given her a counterproposal. A campaign guaranteed to increase tobacco sales a thousand percent
.
Bianca chuckled to herself. That guarantee had surely intrigued her, she had to admit that. However, she held firm. She wanted his name on the Virility Project. Each night she increased the remuneration while at the same time she drew his imagination into concepts of extraordinary sexual stamina. She had not missed his fleeting glances to his groin as she spoke and knew that he worried about his impotence despite his bravado.
She shook her head with amusement. So lost was George in what she promised, he never once asked why him, when there were many qualified agencies in the city who would spin backwards for a Raborman contract; as far as he was concerned, using subliminal persuasion to sell her product was unnecessary. Nor did he ask how her late-night excursion into the park had so fortuitously led her to an alcoholic vagrant who had subliminal advertising expertise and a libido problem at a time when she just happened to need both. Each time she returned, he was waiting. He was too obsessed with gold-plated items to not wait, too obsessed with her whispered words, her promises of pleasures beyond his wildest dreams.
Two, maybe three more days she would paint her pictures, she thought. He would willingly say yes to her proposition or submit to a Pandora Blue suggestion. Either way, George Kayman was coming to the island before Sefura arrived. The wooing period was over.
Standing tall, she stretched her arms high. Her gaze rested on her desk calendar. December 31, 2131. Another year of progress had come to a close.
December 31st.
Her arms jerked down as she remembered. "January 1, 2132: Victoria Jensen weds Ned Harris" the courtesy invitation had said.
Bianca flipped the calendar page and eyed three bold question marks she had scrawled under the word nuptials. Her first impulse had been to decline the invitation. However, wedding exhilaration often produced drunken conversations filled with interesting information. With a guest list of three hundred, who knew what might be divulged in the party flush accompanying the marriage of a distinguished scientist's daughter. Bianca inked out the question marks. She would be among the honored guests.
Shadows in the House With Twelve Rooms Page 17