The Erasable Man: Chronicles of Zachary Artemas

by Christopher Salch

  Anne's left hand was still twitching and jerking a bit, but steadying it with her right seemed to bring it under control.

  "Enough about that. The equipment from your old apartment just arrived. Do you feel up to seeing your new place?" asked Ruth.

  Anne sat up, shifted her legs off the side of the bed, and almost fell over. Ruth had to catch her to keep her from sliding onto the floor. When the room stopped spinning, Anne spent a moment getting reacquainted with the idea of balance. Her body felt odd—it seemed to balance differently—but Anne couldn't quite put her finger on what had changed.

  "Whoa!" said Ruth. "Maybe we should wait a little bit longer."

  "No, I'll be alright. Just give me a minute to catch my breath," said Anne. "Are you sure that thing put me back together the same way?"

  "You're in perfect health. The dizziness is just a side effect, it will pass," said Ruth. "If you need more rest, we can do this another time. There's no rush."

  "Maybe not for you, I want to see where I'm going to be spending the next few months."

  "Well, at least let me get you a wheelchair. If I let you get hurt now, I'd be just as bad as Janus."

  "So! How's my patient?" asked Lee as he rounded the corner into her room.

  "I was just about to show Anne where she'll be staying," said Ruth.

  "Is she feeling up to it?" asked Lee skeptically. "Janus put her through the blender on puree!"

  "I'll manage," scowled Anne. But she was still coming to terms with the ground's location under her feet and which direction was up. "Just give me a minute to get my balance."

  There was an awkward pause as Lee and Ruth exchanged worried glances.

  "Could you bring a wheelchair in here, Lee?" requested Ruth.

  "Sure, I'll just get one from down the hall."

  He came back with the wheelchair and helped Anne out of bed. A quick check of her vitals showed nothing out of the ordinary other than the persistent dizziness. After a few quick notes on her chart, Lee discharged Anne from the infirmary, warning her to go easy for at least a few days.

  Their route through the facility consisted of several long, grey hallways—featureless except for a heavy bulkhead door every few hundred feet marked as bio-hazard, radiation, chemical-hazard or other unfamiliar warning signs. Sometimes loud banging noises emanated from behind the doors. At others, strange animal noises that seemed to form a single voice and yet had characteristics of several different creatures.

  Anne couldn't help wondering just what kind mess she'd gotten herself into. The facility Ruth was pushing her through felt more like the depths of some top-secret military research center than anything owned by a private individual. Then again, enough money could buy nearly anything.

  "How big is this place?" asked Anne.

  "As big as it needs to be," said Ruth. "That's one of advantages of building in Pocketville. Here, we have as much or as little space as we need."

  "Could you be more vague? If you don't want to answer the question, just say so!"

  "That is the answer! It's hard to explain out of context," said Ruth. "This part of Pocketville is what we need it to be. You'll see what I mean as soon as you start working on whatever Janus has planned for you. What was your specialty again?"

  "I'm not sure I'd call it a specialty. Mostly, I make matches."

  "Matches? Now who's being tight with information? Janus wouldn't have brought you here if there wasn't something special about you."

  "Well, my matches are a little unusual."

  "Little? Paige sent your stuff through after you. She marked most of it as extremely dangerous; potentially radioactive."

  "What! There's not enough radiation in my whole apartment to hurt a fly!"

  "So, spill it!" said Ruth with a mischievous grin. "What's so special about your matches?"

  "Okay! My matches have a tendency to blow up, and I mean blow up in a big way."

  "So, explosives then. That's why Paige recommended a blasting range on your floor," said Ruth.

  "But I don't make bombs!" protested Anne.

  "Then what do you call a match that explodes?"

  "Not an explosive," said Anne. "They just combust very vigorously."

  "Well, I'm still going to make sure that blasting range is ready," said Ruth just as they reached a very utilitarian elevator.

  "Now, we have one more stop to make," said Ruth. "We're heading up to the loading dock so you can take a look at what Paige sent through. I'm sure you'll want some of your personal effects in your new apartment and some of the more dangerous stuff put in your lab."

  "I have a lab?"

  "Of course you have a lab! What do you think you're doing here, child?" exclaimed Ruth. The trip up the elevator lasted little more than the time it took for the doors to close and open. Just one more oddity to add to the growing list of strangeness.

  "That was fast," commented Anne.

  "Yup! The Junctivator is one of mine. There's only one of them right now, and it would be pretty difficult to build one outside of Pocketville. The space here has some special properties that make a device like the Junctivator much simpler. It's so much nicer than all that futzing about with pulleys or hydraulic pistons in a normal elevator. Better yet, it only needs a door on each level, no empty tunnels or pits either!"

  "Junctivator? I think I'm a little lost here… "

  "Don't worry about that; you'll catch up soon enough. The inside of the Junctivator is always in flux. Its door can be opened onto any floor of the facility when you're inside it."

  "How does that work?" asked Anne.

  "Well, it has to do with exotic matter in the Junctivator's outer shell and how it alters the curvature of reality," said Ruth. "Part of the reason it would be difficult to build one outside of Pocketville is the distinction between the reality that exists here and the space-time everywhere else—"

  "You lost me at exotic matter," said Anne. "I'm feeling like I might be in over my head."

  "I very seriously doubt that, Anne. For instance, how do your matches work?"

  "Well… " she paused for a moment and then laughed. "It's complicated."

  "Exactly!" said Ruth, smiling.

  Paige had arranged for a moving crew who worked exclusively in relocating scientific equipment to package everything that Anne owned. They did an amazing job of making certain her things were well packed and anything that triggered their instruments or looked even remotely dangerous was marked as such. All of it was piled on a large platform in the middle of another mirror finished, transference chamber—this one several times larger than the one Anne had arrived through. The two women spent several hours going over the various boxes, sifting and sorting through Anne's possessions—Ruth asking questions and Anne doing her best to describe everything. In the end, the only boxes headed to her new apartment contained clothing and books—everything else, including Anne's power-plant lamp, was deemed too dangerous or too valuable to store outside of the facility proper.

  Another quick trip in the Junctivator took them to the front porch of a house. The yard was filled with neatly trimmed grass, colored a healthy shade lush green, and ringed by a white picket fence—almost too inconspicuous to be believed. Manicured lawns and cookie cutter town homes lined the rest of the small, residential street just like any normal suburban neighborhood Anne had ever seen. The stark contrast from the industrial complex they had just exited was enough to leave Anne speechless.

  "How ya doin', Ruth? Who's your new friend?" called a cheery woman who was watering flowers in the next yard over. Ruth smiled and waved back to her.

  "This is Anne. She's new around town. Anne, this is Alexa. She keeps an eye on things out here and makes sure the grass stays green."

  "Nice to meet you, Alexa," replied Anne.

  "And same to you! I'm sure I'll be seeing you around," said Alexa, turning back to her watering. A low, black car was waiting for them at the curb and Ruth wasted no time in ushering Anne across the yard to it.

 
; Pocketville itself turned out to be a very normal looking city for all the oddities of the facility that occupied it. Anne came to expect the convention that any and all businesses would have Pocketville somewhere in their name. It was a recurring theme everywhere she looked, no matter the industry. The apartment complex Anne would be living in was even known as Pocketville Heights.

  When they arrived, Anne's belongings had already been delivered and were just being unloaded. It wasn't the largest apartment in the world, though it was at least twice the size of Anne's old place and in a significantly safer looking part of town.

  Anne smiled as she stood in her new home for the first time. Just knowing that she could sleep soundly without having to bar the door made her feel at ease. I can get used to this, she thought.

  "We provide transportation, so don't worry about getting to and from the facility. Just pick up any phone and ask for Adam," said Ruth as she turned to leave Anne to her unpacking. "He'll be listening."

  "What's the number?" asked Anne.

  "No number, just say the name. Like I said, he'll be listening."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  T- 70 Hours - Working the Problem

  "Hello, Artemas," said the voice at the other end of the line.

  "I had hoped to hear from you sooner," I said and took a sip from my scotch. I was at once relieved to hear that voice and worried. Relieved that the Hidden had finally contacted me and worried about what I might owe him.

  "You were warned that your request would require time," responded Adam. There was just a hint of something predatory in his voice.

  "What did you find?"

  I almost asked about T.E.M. directly, but decided against it. The beautiful woman standing in front of me, watching every little twitch I made, was on T.E.M.'s payroll, and I didn't want to give too much away. It was an empty hope to believe that my potential employer had no knowledge of the Hidden, but there wasn't any point in telegraphing my knowledge of Adam either.

  "Remember our deal, Artemas," said Adam.

  "You know I can't forget," I chided.

  "Retrieving this information required a deep search through every accessible database in Pocketville."

  In my mind, the favor I owed Adam doubled in size.

  "It was also necessary to acquire surveillance video from Pocketville First National Bank and several of the surrounding shops," he continued.

  My heart sank even more as my mental image of his favor kept growing.

  "A search of the Founder's Archive was also required."

  "You pulled out all the stops on this," I croaked. No one had access to the Founder's Archive. Well, that wasn't strictly true—I had access, albeit indirectly. Anything that led Adam's search there would mean very bad things—everything and everyone within the confines of Pocketville had a file, but only the oldest and most powerful residents would 'require' looking that file up.

  "I was very thorough in my search."

  "I believe you. Now what did you find?" I demanded.

  "T.E.M. does not exist."

  For an instant, anger surged through me, and then I realized the implications of Adam's answer: T.E.M. does not exist. Everyone leaves a trail of information as they move through their daily lives, even more so in a place like Pocketville. The Hidden was extremely skilled at sifting through that sea of data—too good to be tricked by something as simple as an alias or even multiple aliases. If Adam said someone didn't exist, there was nothing to be found. Either T.E.M. was better than Adam—a near impossibility—or he wasn't part of the data stream Adam could access—something equally impossible when the Archive was involved.

  "Can you tell if the information was removed or if it never existed?" I asked, ignoring the sinking feeling in my stomach.

  "There is evidence of subtle manipulation," stated Adam with what sounded like grudging respect. "I might have missed it without checking the Founder's Archive."

  "Information has been removed from the Archive?"

  "Yes."

  I glanced at Michelle. She had been watching me closely the entire time, and I saw the hint of a smile creasing her lips. She couldn't hear what Adam was saying, but given the context, I had to assume she knew what I was asking about if not who.

  "Do you want my opinion, Artemas?" asked Adam.

  I'd known Adam for years, even before he started calling himself 'The Hidden,' and I'd never known him to offer an opinion on anything, especially without being asked—there wasn't any profit in giving information away.

  "If you're willing to give it," I said.

  "Walk away. Whatever you are being offered is not worth the risk."

  That was bad, very bad. T.E.M. had spooked Adam, and nothing this side of the Wastes could scare the Hidden. At least, nothing I knew anything about. Then again, I'd never heard of anything being able to alter the contents of the Archive either. Records there were supposed to be as indelible as death and taxes were certain.

  "I will take that into consideration," I said, guarding my words carefully. "Is there anything else you can tell me?"

  "No. I will contact you when the time comes for you to repay your debt. Be ready."

  There was a sharp click, and the line dropped to dial-tone. I sighed, handed the phone back to Michelle and downed the remainder of my Scotch.

  "I take it that was about our mutual acquaintance," mused Michelle. I didn't like the mischievous twinkle in her eye one bit. "You have some strange sources. That phone has an unlisted number, and I know Dad wouldn't give it to you, even if he likes you."

  "Is it? I wouldn't know," I said.

  "Just who was that?"

  "If I told you, he would probably make me kill you."

  "I almost believe that," said Michelle, eying the clock. "Your time is running out."

  "And I've made my decision," I said, writing on the corner of a napkin. I had brought paper with me, but this seemed more fitting. The porous nature of the napkin blurred the letters leaving my scrawled "yes" barely visible. I folded it in half and sealed the napkin into a plain, white envelope. "Here you go. When will I hear back?"

  "You already have," she answered, glancing at the bar and tossing my note into the trash.

  There was a manila envelope with my name on it sitting on the bar where I had just been writing. A single, bloody fingerprint left no question about who it had come from. Michelle hadn't placed the envelope, and no one else was close enough to have snuck itq21 onto the bar without notice. My new client was turning out to be a smart-ass.

  The next morning started with another nasty hangover. Michelle had been kind enough to open a tab under our mutual friend's initials—since I didn't know his real name and she wasn't telling if she did. It seemed appropriate to celebrate finally having a client, and on top of that, a client with money to spare. I tried not to think too hard about where the money came from; I needed it too badly to let anything as petty as scruples get in the way. T.E.M. was a paying customer. He might have annoying ideas about communication, but the only part that mattered for the moment was 'paying.' The rest of my concerns would have to wait.

  Inside the new envelope was another cryptic letter:

  Mr. Artemas,

  I am glad you saw fit to accept my offer. I know you have an aversion to dealing with unknowns, and I am truly sorry that I cannot accommodate your desire to learn more about me. I must admit, the resources at your disposal are quite impressive. No one has been able to accomplish so thorough a search in recent memory. I congratulate you on your efforts, however unsuccessful they may have been.

  To business. You were contracted to find an item for me. So, it is time to give you what information I can about my lost relic. Unfortunately, there is very little pertinent information to convey. I know what you're thinking, that I should let you decide what is relevant and what isn't. Let me reply to that thought by stating I have my reasons for not informing you of certain things. Suffice it to say, knowing more about this item will only hinder your ability to find it. In
part, this is why my own not inconsiderable efforts have been unsuccessful and will continue to be without outside assistance.

  What I can tell you is that this item grants its bearer a degree of anonymity and unobtrusiveness. It is possible for a person in possession of this item to stand right in front of you and not be noticed. I can also tell you that the shroud provided by my relic is imperfect; there is a way to pierce it. I cannot, however, tell you the means to pierce it—though you, Artemas, are uniquely qualified to accomplish this feat.

  I will also warn you to be careful of Sheridan Xidorn. His persistent nature will inevitably lead him into conflict with your goal. Should he succeed in his task before my item is recovered, the repercussions are inconceivable.

  You may contact me as before, through Michelle Dooley. I will be expecting expense and progress reports on a weekly basis. Until then, I wish you good luck and good hunting.

  T.E.M.

  Investigation is about information, gathering and interpretation, and I had precious little to go on. T.E.M.'s letter revealed a few tidbits, but not nearly enough to get the ball rolling. The hint about Sheridan being a problem—something I was already certain of—meant the dead woman, Candice Aberdeen had something to do with the missing relic. An unfortunate coincidence since Sheridan already didn't like me and being interested in his investigation would do nothing to improve our relationship. The word "relic" itself was unusual and implied I was either looking for something very old or possibly human remains—an implication that I wasn't certain I wanted to think about. More questions and no answers.

  With nothing else to go on, Sheridan's reference to a Michael Mulhullond was my best and only viable lead. I wasn't immediately familiar with the name so I did what I always do: I made a cup of tea and sat in my big leather chair to think.

  Having a good memory is an asset to any investigator, and mine is so much better than good. I can skim through a book, newspaper, or almost any text—looking at each page long enough for my eyes to get a clear picture—and call it up later to read at my leisure. You never know when a scrap of information hiding in a newspaper classified ad or buried in an article on page J-19 might be the clue you're looking for. So, I "recorded" everything I could get my hands on, and, being perpetually short on cash, I usually did it right there in the store without buying the item in question. Most of the bookstores around town had figured out my trick years ago and started charging me a fee just to walk in the door. As annoying as that was, I couldn't really blame them.