These questions of the reconstruction are delved into with greater gusto by other authors. I myself have been more fascinated with that period of rescue, and more than that, the imminent danger that so many millions of people faced and succumbed to on that terrible day.
Human spirit is a tough thing to get rid of. In the face of danger, most everyone runs. Some freeze. But whether these runners head toward or away from the danger is one of the most basic stumbling blocks in our understanding of good and evil. Do good people run away? Do bad people help? Can one switch from one end of the spectrum to the other?
And these frozen people—are they caught up in this moral dilemma? Has fright simply paralyzed them, or have they been so untrained in the ways of ethics that their body has become caught in stasis—immoveable object versus irresistible force, all of that. But are they at base wanting to help, and fighting the fibers to flee? Are they at base wanting to flee, and fighting the fibers to help?
Questions. Not many answers. Most of the freezers died. Drowned. Crushed. Burned. Not very practical, freezing in the face of a catastrophe. Understandable, though.
The rescuers rescued. If nothing else, it had become their job—and if the mega-corps were good at anything, it was compelling people to do their job.
* * * * *
Here is how the morning went for Victor:
He came back from the dead.
Victor had died several times before, or at least he had technically. It was hard for a clone to die all the way—for the body it inhabited to not be usable again.
Here was the problem with just letting Victor die:
Quality clones are expensive.
They are probably the most expensive thing that a person could buy, outside of an entire Alphabet. And an Alphabet, almost by its definition, did not work very well without its other members. Each one served a purpose in protecting the Alpha.
To grow a new clone, a new brain, and then train it for the several years that it required to know all it needed to know, was too expensive. It was cheaper to replace bits of a clone’s body—bones, muscles, brain, liver, spleen, intestines. Whatever needed replacing could be built again with tech or stem cells. Victor had no recollection of his actual deaths happening, and in fact only dim awareness that his parts were not entirely human parts. He understood that there was metal in him, that various aspects of his brain were installed in the way that you might screw in a shelf or a cabinet, except at a very small scale. He understood this in the way that maybe you understand that you have to eat again after you have just eaten a meal that is entirely too large, in that you cannot deny what has always been true in the past, but the conception of it is beyond your lock into reality.
At any rate, that morning, he was in a lab. It was bright, and he was naked and cool, but not cold. There was a breeze coming from somewhere that probably kept people with clothes on very comfortable. He was not comfortable at all.
Someone took his hand and pulled him up. A man with loose dark hair, poorly combed so that he looked balding even though he wasn’t. He looked like Victor, sort of, with golden eyes and a much thicker neck and set of jowls. Victor recognized him immediately.
“Dad?” Victor asked. “Where are we, Dad?”
The man shook his head. “No way, bud. Just the doc.”
He held a tablet in one hand and pressed Victor’s face to it. Long streams of light and information poured over Victor’s brain. Feelings of family were suppressed. The comitatus of the Alphabet was instilled once more. That strange sense of familial familiarity left Victor and was quickly replaced with another more sterile version.
Of course.
This man was Hotel, not Dad. Victor had no Dad. Nostalgia swept through him—not for his father, as he had never had one, but for that feeling that he had possessed one. The feeling that he thought he had a father. The feeling that he was innately worthy of one. Hotel smiled at Victor the way you would smile at a dog, or maybe a kitten that had gotten stuck in a bag.
“All right, Victor,” said Hotel. “How are you feeling?”
“Okay.
Victor looked down at his chest. There was a long patch of circuitry running level with his skin from his navel to his left nipple. It was hard to the touch, ragged.
“I died again.”
“You died again!” Hotel shrugged. “You are a dangerous person, living in dangerous times. It’s a wonder it’s only been eight times, to tell you the truth. You’re very good at what you do.”
“How did it all shake out?”
“Well enough. They dropped in Yankee after you, like they said they would. He mopped them all up. Terror with a minigun, he is.”
“Yankee?” Victor felt drugged, his head swimming. “He makes a mess.”
“You made a mess. Propane tanks, indeed! Yankee cleaned the mess.”
Coming back from the dead was always odd for Victor. He wondered if the other clones had to deal with it very much. He had heard once of Juliette dying, but that was it. Every death seemed like a landmark. There was everything before he was revived, and then everything after. After eight times, now, it was a bit hard to keep track of all the complete rearrangements of his self.
Victor banged the desk. “You tell that damn robot that I’m going to crack his shell open if he thinks he’s taking the credit for that one.”
His emotions powered through him. Death to naysayers. Piss on every fool. Put them in a line.
“You can tell him yourself, tomorrow. I'll hide the propane tanks.”
“Tomorrow?”
“We’re all going to an island somewhere. Deep in the Atlantic. I’d tell you where, but I don’t know. Anyway, there’s a mole been found out, and the boss wants to know how deep it goes.”
“Interrogation?”
Hotel nodded.
“Am I part of the team?”
“Your loyalty, at this point, is not questioned.”
“Is Yankee’s?”
That would make him happy. Smacking Yankee around, getting him to look like a coward. Wouldn’t that be fun? A real time of a time. He could shove a propane tank into his stupid mech body and blow him up, just like he had done with that other fellow before getting killed.
“This is serious, Victor. This isn’t a time to play hoorah. You’ve got to get out there and kill that mole.”
The doctor gave him a shot from a small gun-like dispenser. Victor felt his emotions cooling, and then cooling more. Like an glacier on top of the steam pressure building.
That was better. Calmer.
Victor slid off the operating table. Nearby was the tray that held all the steel plates and cybernetics tech that could possibly be put inside of him. Many of them were artificial organs, like a glittering, netted liver that was flexible and slender, capable of easily installing itself.
Across the table was a rack with weapons and equipment. In front was his blue and gray work suit. He put it on. There was new bullet-proofing around the chest from where he got shot. He checked it for a few moments, looking in all the small utility pockets strapped across his chest.
“Is there nothing for explosives?”
“You mean do you have any? Sure. There’s some—”
“No, I mean against it. That was how I died, that time.”
Hotel shook his head. “We didn’t have time for an upgrade like that. You’ve got to get down there and kill Oscar today.”
“Oscar, huh?”
“He was always a little screwy. Mike says he just put himself in so deep that he doesn’t know which team he was playing for anymore.”
“Okay. Which way is out?”
Hotel pressed a button on the wall. The back of the lab opened up into the sky. They had been airborne this whole time. Victor frowned for a moment and grabbed a parachute off the rack.
“Remember,” said Hotel. “Big meeting tomorrow. Try and take care of yourself, okay?”
It will be in-and-out, thought Victor. Of course I’ll be okay.
* * * * *
Victor? I’ve finally got the auxiliary speaker turned on. Victor, you have to get out of there. Another quake is coming. Aftershock.
Victor stood up off his knees and was yelled at by the voice in his skull. The voice was probably God. It sounded like God. In front of him, his mama was so angry, so sad. Covering her mouth with one hand. With her toe, she pushed at the dead body that Victor had made for her. There was blood everywhere. Everywhere blood. Was he born? Is this how that happens? He knew there was blood at a birth.
Around him were all kinds of parts of the man he’d killed. Someone being bad to Mom. His thoughts were fuzzy. Was that man Dad? How did it work?
He knew this woman was his mother because she was the very first woman he had ever seen, and more than that, she was the first woman he had ever heard—calling out his name some many minutes ago when he had the WAKE UP surrounded by all those dead dogs. Those poor dead dogs. Had they been good dogs or bad dogs? A dog could be either, or sometimes both. Morality was difficult for animals, not having the ability to give it to themselves.
Were you born in dogs? Was that how people borned? If he was born today, then he was born beside dead dogs who died on top of him—one whose eyes had the life exit straight of it while Victor’s own life began.
Was it a system like that? Dogs died and a Victor lived?
After the WAKE UP, Victor had not been able to think much. He just ran up the stairs and climbed the walls and tried to find his Mom.
Now, he was thinking a lot. Because now, he had done it. He held his mother tight. She was so small and frightened and that was okay because he would protect her.
He said to her, “Mama, it's all right. I know a lot about killing. We'll be fine.”
And she said, “There's another earthquake coming, Victor. You...your skull said so. I could hear it. It...it warbled out from you. We'll die like Gary's dead. Oh, God, Victor. Gary's really dead. You killed him.”
You need to get to the top of The Tower, Victor. That's the only way you'll make it.
Right, okay. He would listen to God. Was it God? It sounded like Victor's own thoughts. Maybe it was Victor’s brother. Victor knew he had a brother somewhere; knew it in the bones he had that were not metal. The metal bones knew nothing. They had not paid enough attention in class. Paying attention was important. He would take his mother and they would get to the top and they would be safe and she would teach him mom-type things, like how to suck milk or to wear pants in a fetching way or to shop at the store for the best kinds of fruit.
“What kind of coconut is the best kind?” he asked.
Parts of his jaw slopped down onto his mother's feet. There was a lot of his skin that was loose in a great many places. She seemed surprised, stepping back from the red and fleshy mess over her shoes. He would let her take care of it. Mom was so good at that sort of thing.
I'm turning up the volume now. Ana? Was that your name? Can you hear me? This is Mike again. You need to get Victor to the top of the building with you if you can. But the data is the priority. His brain is a little screwy right now. We're trying to fix it.
“He thinks I'm his mother!”
He is thinking all kinds of things, believe me.
Victor could think all day long and not get tired of it. Once he had been in a place without thought, but that was gone now that he had the WAKE UP. There was nothing and then there was the WAKE UP, and before that there had been some other things that made him awfully good at killing people around his mother.
Someone stomped up from behind them. “Jesus Christ. Is he a goddamn cyborg?”
At the door now was a small woman with a complex piece of tech in her hands. Or was it her hand? That was interesting. Did she have a metal chest and collarbones and femurs like he did as well? She might have many things like he did, and a few like he didn’t. He could see from her frame that they were different. Wasn’t everyone? That was the way.
Oh, she had a name. Everything and everyone had a name of course, but this one had a name in Victor's mind somewhere. It was sort of fresh, too, which made it easy to consider but hard to remember. Like the names of paintings in museums you had just left.
Something dinged. The elevator.
“We can go!” said Mom, rushing inside. “We can go straight up.”
Victor backed in, staring carefully at the new dark woman. Was her name rock? Or would it be Rock? There were letters and then there were LETTERS, and Victor had each kind in his own name and so he should know which was which and where they should go.
He pushed Mom into the elevator and stood in front of this new woman with the metal hand. This was very brave. He would be rewarded later. That was how Moms worked.
“Victor?” said Mom. “What are you doing, Victor? Victor...hon.” She let in a ragged, laughing breath. “Let Ore in. She has all the data. Remember, hon? The data that you need to take? We can all go up. It’ll be no problem.”
Ah, Ore. That was her name. That was a bit like Rock, wasn’t it? Rocks could be dangerous in the wrong hands, like most things. This Ore certainly had a wrong hand. Why was it metal? Was she trying to be dangerous like Victor was sometimes dangerous?
How had he known he was dangerous?
Was it dangerous to have someone dangerous around him being dangerous when he was with his mother? There was so much danger to danger. So many variables to consider.
“She can go later, Mom. It’s you and me now.”
His voice was sort of metallic and tonguey, and he could tell that it bothered Mom by the way she recoiled when he spoke. Spittle dripped down his chest.
The girl with the metal hand—her name was Ore, yes—she opened her hand and closed it. It clanged and threatened.
“You let me through, man, or I’ll run through you. I’m going up that elevator.”
Ore pressed forward and Victor shot her in the side. A narrow slice of her hip fell out behind her. She fell to a knee, gripping the wound. Blood splattered down.
“You slock,” Ore grunted. “You goddamn metal slock.”
“Let her pass, Victor honey.” This was Mom now. Her voice was being very, very Mom. She touched him on the shoulder. Wow. “Let her pass. Let her in the elevator with us.”
“I don’t want to be in an elevator with her. She is yelling.”
“That’s all right, Victor. She’s my friend, hon. Mommy’s friend, all right? Don't touch Mommy's friend, that's not how you treat me.” Mom shuddered and let out weird cracking sobs. “You have to let her in. You have to do this. It’s what I want.”
Victor looked between his Mom and Ore. He troubled over the debate beginning. Did Mom know what was best? Of course she did. She was Mom. How would she not know that? He watched Mom blink away tears. Tears of happiness, of course. She was so happy they were together.
“I just...I don’t know that she and I ought to be together, Mom. She is yelling. She is mean to me.”
“Yes, Victor hon. Okay. Why don’t you wait, then?”
“Wait?”
“I’ll take her up, and send her away for you. And then I’ll come back down and grab you. How does that sound?”
“You can’t leave me, Mom. You can’t—”
Tight, hard crushing on his shoulder. He yelped, squealing in pain. A baby’s cry. He was a baby, he would cry like a baby. He staggered and dropped into the wall, firing his gun out and up. But not towards Mom, no! Not toward her. She was sacred. Like a cow. Like a sacred Mom cow.
She was gone. The elevator dinged up and they were gone. Roaring up at her, Victor broke open the elevator door with his foot. Bones shattered there. That was too bad.
Could he grow them back?
You could grow anything back, or if you couldn’t, then you could replace it.
Wires ratcheted upward—he grabbed one, swinging, following the elevator up. Flesh burned off his hands. Floors zoomed past. Working, gripping, swinging, he climbed. The cabin was not so very far above him.
He fired in a
corner of the cabin and heard Mom scream. That was all right. He wasn’t going to hurt her, she was his Mom. You couldn’t hurt your Mom. No one could really hurt her. He fired and fired again.
The metal started peeling away. He reached up, grabbing edges and folding it. An opening—he could get it!
There were screams. Everyone so excited. He reached through the hole with his gun and one of them kicked his gun away. That was smart. Who had done that who was so smart? Mom was often smart, but then so probably too was whoever Mom hung out with. He lifted up his other hand, and they stomped on his fingers.
God, that hurt. He had trouble hanging on. What were they thinking, doing that? He opened his mouth—stop, he wanted to say. Another kick, under his mouth this time, and off went his jaw. Tongue hanging loose like a towel on a rack.
Lordy whoo, but that hurt. Where was God? His brother? Where was his brother God to help him?
He lifted up, and Ore kicked him in the face. Brain matters clanged around on the metal of his skull. Ore hopped around, holding her foot. He rolled into the cabin entirely. Ore picked up his gun and shot him in the chest. Clang, clang. A weird sort of vibration, spreading out around his body, the force dissipating.
The elevator dinged. Top floor.
“Please, Victor,” said Mom. “Please, son. Just let Mommy past, okay? Let us get by.”
Victor shook his head slowly. He tried to say a few things but without his tongue it was all just slobber and blood.
I’m very sorry, all of you. You’re out of time. If there’s something you can hold on to, you might want to do it.
Mom’s voice, desperate. “What does that mean?”
And then everything began to shake and lean and tumble and break.
Up The Tower Page 16