“Fine,” he said. “Hit the grocers, buy them out of whatever they carry, then I’ll go face the music.”
Lawrence grinned. “I hope she’s worth it, Boss.”
“She’s really not. Trust me.”
“Bringing her roses might not be the message you want to convey.”
And he’d be right. “Grocery stores carry roses these days?”
Lawrence’s dark eyes were on him through the mirror again. “Uh-huh.”
Mike laughed. “Get the flowers. I’ll kick her to the curb in the morning.”
“You’re the boss.”
Yeah, that’s right. I am the boss, he repeated inside his head.
He looked away, staring out the side window at the passing scenery—all brick and glass buildings, squeezed together like anchovies, clamoring toward the sooty sky. The fresh scent—cedar wood, he guessed—that Lawrence had here inside the car did nothing to convince Mike it didn’t stink of exhaust and fossil fuels outside. That’s what was wrong here. Ugly was covered with “pretty”, on every level. Scratch the surface and there was no denying the truth, yet so many refused to scratch. Instead, they grinned and buffed and buffed that ugly, hoping for the best….
Lawrence had said Mike was the boss. What exactly was he the boss of?
When was the last time he’d seen an actual tree? Anything growing? He thought now of Tree, in Stanley Park, and experienced a wave of nostalgia for the old days when he was homeless, snug up in Tree, wrapped up warm against the night air and reading a secondhand paperback novel by flashlight.
Really? That was better? Somewhere, deep in his heart, he knew it was. When was the last time he’d read a good book? A piercing longing took him back to his old haunts in the Cloud Rez library stacks, where he had been free to wander, to learn anything he dreamed of, whenever he wanted.
Reading a grimy novel in Tree was not the same as the safety of Cloud Rez.
His homeless days had been a nightmare. The only good thing to come out of…
Again, he caught himself. He did need that whiskey. Now he was missing Dom? The man whom he’d helped transform, the man who became Conrad Joseph, the friend he’d had before he’d betrayed Mike and stolen his wife? He didn’t need him. Conrad’s and Cherry’s romantic getaway only proved that Con had never truly been his friend. He’d been using Mike all along. Mike was his leg up and that was all.
Con had landed the best paying security job in the city because of Mike. Had grown rich playing the stock market because of Mike. And as soon as he saw he could grab Cherry from Mike, he’d gone in for the kill. Yeah—cheer up my depressed wife, why don’t ya? And after I pulled you off the streets; after I gave you a good name and respectability. If it weren’t for me, you’d still be turning down the sheets for raggedy old men at the shelter to earn your keep.
The limo stopped. “Be right back,” Lawrence told him. The driver’s door shut. Mike watched him enter the store then let his gaze wander the parking lot. Funny how he still searched out the best places to hide, the best places to scrounge from. Even to this day. He leaned his head back and closed his weary eyes. He never had peace. Never.
When the door opened, and a pile of cellophane-packaged flowers were deposited on the seat beside him, he startled, momentarily disoriented. He’d dozed off.
Leaning in, Lawrence looked up at him. “You okay, Boss?”
Mike rubbed his face with his hands, dislodging his wig accidently. He hated the thing, but there was no removing his Cloud Rez tattoos short of peeling off his scalp, which was the whole point back home. No one could remove your identity, your station. “Yeah.” He tugged the wig back into place and sighed. He was monstrously tired and there was still Veronica to deal with. What had he seen in her, anyway?
She was of oriental descent, as was Cherry, but Veronica was taller, bigger. Her features were course, not delicate like Cherry’s. Veronica was louder. She laughed—a lot. That’s what had drawn him to her. Her laughter. She took nothing seriously. Life was one big hilarious joke to Veronica, and he’d needed levity to balance the boatload of horrible he dealt with every day. He fed off her laughter.
He’d bet she wasn’t laughing now.
Walking through the door laden with the slippery cellophane wrapped flowers wasn’t the conversation opener he’d hoped for.
The condo was dark, except for the light afforded the living room by the blazing gas fireplace, warming the room to uncomfortable. A flash of New Year’s Eve, with Cherry waiting for him, just like this, paralyzed him.
It took a moment for him to recognize Veronica, seated on the sectional, wrapped in the fur coat he’d bought her a few weeks into their relationship. Her arms were crossed. Her legs were crossed, her upper-most leg bouncing up and down, its silver stiletto heel flashing in the light, warning of dangerous things to come. Her glittering dark eyes bore into him.
It was the expression on her face that set him off. Her entitled-to-be-offended face.
Abruptly, he didn’t care.
He let the flowers drop from his grasp onto the floor. He didn’t care about the flowers—they could go straight into the trash.
He didn’t care to apologize—he owed Veronica nothing.
He didn’t care about the ridiculous coat. Killing animals for fashion? It was a fake, anyway, but if she knew him at all, really knew him, she’d never have asked it of him.
The entitled Veronicas were what was wrong with this world. Thinking they deserved everything, when they cared so little.
Mike had enough.
He strode to his room, grabbed one of his suitcases from his closet and ripped Veronica’s few clothes from the hangers and stuffed them in. He went to the bureau, yanked out her one drawer and turned out the contents over the open suitcase. Next up—he swept the bathroom counter of her bottles of whatever crap women smeared all over themselves, then zipped the whole mess up inside.
Back out in the great room, he saw she’d hadn’t moved, though her expression had altered from angry to frightened.
Yeah, sweetheart, you overplayed your pissed off attitude. Turns out this dude ain’t picking up what you’re laying down. He opened the penthouse door and tossed the suitcase out.
She sprang to her feet. “Mike? What’s wrong with you? Did something happen?”
“Too late to play the sympathy card.” He strode toward her, buried his fingers into that freaking fake fur and dragged her across the floor. Her eyes bugged out in shock, her stilettos scrambled under her, trying to get purchase on the hardwood. “Time to go, sweetheart,” he ground out through clenched teeth.
“Are you crazy?” she gasped, clawing at his hands ineffectually. “You can’t do this! Take your hands off me!”
He opened the door and shoved her out into the hallway. She fell out of the coat and with a cry, caught herself against the far wall, turning abruptly to stare back at him, her dark eyes filling with injured tears, her lips trembling. No big laugh now. He looked down with disgust at the fake fur coat still in his grip, pitched it out after her and slammed the door.
He went immediately to his liquor cabinet for that whiskey he’d been promising himself half the day, poured a tumbler full and slumped onto one of the bar stools, gulping half the glass’s contents, grimacing and celebrating the burn as it went down, spreading heat across his chest in a familiar, comforting way. He pictured Veronica waiting by the elevator, wrapped in her cheap coat. Probably still crying.
Well, hell, he hadn’t thought that through, had he? Now he was exactly where he did not want to be, home alone, something he hated. He should have tossed her in the morning.
Nah—that would have meant at least an hour of sucking up. Not worth it.
He drained the glass, filled it again and made his way to his room, sipping the whiskey now. He’d pass out soon and that would be the end of his loneliness, right there. He tried to grin—good plan, old man—and realized that was exactly how he felt; like an old man. His face crumpled and he choked back
a sob, changing it into a cough, shaking his head vehemently, denying the avalanche of emotions heading his way, always at the ready to smother him the moment he was here alone. He stopped by his bed, drained the glass, then pulled back his arm and hurled it against the far wall.
The sound of glass smashing was not satisfying at all.
He fell across the bed and rolled, bringing the covers with him, and waited for the whiskey and the darkness to take him far, far away.
20
INDIES: DAY SEVEN: WEN 2047
CORU DID a kind of graceless skipping hop with his crutch to catch up with Dom Derrick, who was hurrying them through the steadily brightening streets of the Raven’s territory. All around them was evidence of awakening activity. “You know me?” he gasped. “You know who I am?”
Dom nodded, sweeping his caped arm forward. “Yes, and we have to get under cover quickly. I have pull, but not with everyone. Tanya holds the strings here, but many chafe at their collars.”
Coru pressed, “You know why we’re here?”
“I can guess.” Dom stopped before a thick door, produced a key and inserted it into an old-fashioned lock. The door opened silently, swinging inward to a faintly lit passageway which led to what looked, from here, like a vital, lush central garden. “Come inside and I’ll explain it all to you.”
Coru glanced at Wren for her take on this, realizing he’d not been listening to her mental messages. She bobbed her eyebrows encouragingly. Nelson watched their exchange and nodded his head. Something had changed; Nelson trusted Wren.
Dom motioned them ahead, securing the door behind them. Once the door was locked, Dom faced Coru squarely, his face split with a huge grin, a winking gold tooth reflecting the LED lights strung along the shadowed corridor in which they stood. “You are Coru Wisla.”
“I am.”
“Welcome to WEN 2047!”
Coru’s jaw dropped. “You… You know WEN?”
Dom hurried ahead of them, shedding his cape and motioning for them to follow as he went. Coru hopped along behind him, his crutch tapping an uneven pattern along the tiled floor, his entire body trembling with curiosity, disbelief, and excitement. How did this man know about WEN?
They emerged from the passageway into a courtyard, which contained a complex, central garden. The courtyard was surrounded by four tall walls of terraced apartments, fifteen stories high, Coru guessed. The garden was carefully planted in row upon row of what looked like vegetables, with many trained to grow vertically, maximizing space, with grow lights, mirrors and solar panels at work to coax the plants along. The surrounding apartment terraces were covered in greenery as well, vertical gardens on all sides.
And it smelled so fresh and clean! There was an aerated pond in the center, which looked very similar to those Coru had built with his long-ago restoration and rebuild team on Surface for shrimp—an easy source of protein—if Coru’s quick glance was correct. The sky was open above the square formed by the buildings, with blue sky appearing, no clouds in sight. Looking up and around the perimeter of the large court yard he saw dozens of bright orange doors peeking out from behind each terrace garden, along with tilted solar panels. This might have once been a hotel.
Dom took them to one such door at ground level, no different from any other, and motioned them to follow him. It was warm and bright inside, LED lights flickering on when they entered, triggered by motion.
“Welcome to my humble home. Let me offer you food and drink, then we can talk out our options. We don’t have much time, I’m guessing from your expressions.”
Coru stared back at Dom. “How do you know me? Know that we’re… Start first with how you know me.”
Dom hung his cloak on a peg on the wall and turned to face him. “I will answer that one question, then we eat and talk. I know you because I knew your brother Payton.”
Coru felt as if Dom had reached inside his chest, grabbed his heart, and pulled it back out, still beating inside his over-sized hand. He staggered back, let himself fall into a soft cushioned chair.
Dom worriedly glanced at the far door and back. “I have something to check. I’ll be right back.
Wren sat beside Coru and ran her hand across his back soothingly. “You okay?”
He stared back at her, at a loss for words.
He barely registered Dom was back, thanking some woman for taking care while he was gone and seeing her out of the apartment. He hardly noticed that Nelson then offered to help Dom with the meal, or that Wren was pushing him to lie down so she could check his bandages. This man knew his brother? As in the past? Or his brother is no longer here? Was he back in WEN 2341? Was…was Payton dead? He hated that he wished it were true, that Professor Red was, in fact, not Payton.
Dom and Nelson brought bowls of thick soup out to them, along with dark bread. Coru struggled to sit up, to connect with his surroundings, but all he could think of was Payton. Everyone settled around the small table and began to eat. When Coru didn’t move, Wren glanced up from her bowl and said, “Coru. Eat. You need it.”
He shifted forward, biting back a groan at the stab of pain from his leg. He fumbled for the spoon beside his bowl, saw his hand was trembling and closed it into a fist, willing it to remain still.
Dom swallowed the bread he was eating. “I have a lot to tell you in a short time, so I can’t take the time to pretty this up. I’m sorry about that.”
Coru’s gaze locked onto Dom’s wide, dark face. “You knew my brother? Is…is Payton dead?”
“Trick question, right?” Dom’s eyes were sorrowful.
It absolutely was. There was no doubt now in Coru’s mind that Dom Derrick understood.
“I knew your brother when he first fell into my world back in 2036. Right off the turnip truck, I thought at the time. He was wet behind the ears, scared spitless and the bravest kid I ever met.” He dropped his gaze to his bowl and spooned more thick broth before continuing. “The brother you knew no longer lives in Payton Wisla’s body. That boy is long gone.”
Coru sagged. “He’s still alive? Is he…is Payton…”
Nelson was staring at him with shocked eyes. Wren’s expression was sympathetic. Dom waited patiently for him to ask.
Coru asked the question he already knew the answer to. “Is my brother Professor Red?”
“He is.”
Nelson drew in a sharp breath but remained silent.
Coru closed his eyes with a groan he could not contain. Despite all evidence so far, he’d still held tight to the faint hope he was wrong about Payton.
The others ate in silence, allowing him to pull himself together. Wren stayed out of his head, which he was grateful for. This was possibly the worst moment of his life and he needed to grieve the death of his brother in private.
He felt her hand steal over his and give it a squeeze. She said, “I know you’re not hungry, but we don’t have much time, and you need food to run on. Please try, at least.”
Grasping the spoon with numb fingers, he made himself eat the soup, chew the bread, forcing the food past a throat thick with emotion.
Dom said, “Your brother was a good kid, with a mission that I was not aware of at first. He did confide in me eventually, but by then, he was well under Moses Zhang’s influence. He’d agreed to work with Moses for a year, the deal being if Moses was wrong about our WEN, he would willingly walk back into the Bore with Payton and return to your WEN. “
“That never happened,” Coru croaked, dropping the spoon and all pretense of eating.
“That never happened,” Dom confirmed.
Coru looked at the man, abruptly so angry he felt as if he would explode. “What did Moses do to my brother?”
“Looking back, with the clear eyes of hindsight, Moses seduced your brother, plain and simple. He convinced Payton—he goes by Mike here in our WEN—that together they could reset the world. Of course, by the time the virus happened, I was long gone, but I knew enough to recognize New Earth in action. You must know Mike, I mea
n Payton, was the author of the virus. It may have been Zhang’s inspiration, but Payton delivered the death blow all by himself and of his own free will.”
The rattle of cups, the snick of spoon against crockery, the circle of intense faces, even the physical sensation, the very ownership of his own body receded, gone, all connections to this place sucked away. In a crushing vacuum, Coru was pressed into the ground, every scrap of hope for Payton’s redemption he hadn’t even known he’d still desperately clung to, destroyed.
Sick. Coru was sick knowing that instead of rescuing the past, his brother had condemned it. The entire planet, the entire population, billions of innocents had participated in Payton’s monstrous machinations. There were no words. No words.
But there were words—Dom’s words, the weight of which Coru could not bear.
When Coru could hear again, the clipping sound of a cup returned to a plate, was capable of seeing his surroundings once again, the jumble of colors in the cluttered little apartment, when he could make out the worried faces around him, ashen and tense, eyes large, he made himself focus on Dom’s.
Dom spoke softly, his pitch low and rich. “I’m sorry. Like I said—too much to tell you and too little time.”
Coru pressed his lips closed and nodded, all the while his brain reeled inside his head.
“Later, I’ll tell you everything I know. For now, you need to meet someone.”
No. No more.
Dom got up and left the room. Wren reached out to grip Coru’s hand again, bracing him for what was to come. She knew what was coming; he didn’t want to know. He didn’t want any of this.
Dom returned with a little boy holding his hand. It was the child’s expressive green eyes that set Coru’s heart hammering inside his chest, barely believing what he was seeing. The child was slender, beautiful, and obviously a Wisla, though he had thick dark hair. This was Payton’s son. Absolutely. Coru’s limbs went weak.
Cursed Apprentice (Earth Survives Book 2) Page 33