Connect

by Julian Gough

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me? All this?’

  Ryan shrugs. ‘If you don’t help us kill them, then you’re helping them kill us.’ He wheels his stumps back under the table, and it’s like it never happened; he’s himself again. ‘Would you prefer them to kill us, babe?’

  Naomi winces at the babe. ‘I’m a grown-up now.’

  ‘You certainly are,’ says Ryan. ‘Looking better than ever.’

  ‘That’s not really any of your business any more.’

  ‘Hey, I’m just trying to pay you a compliment.’

  ‘You’ve just kidnapped me.’

  ‘Ah, come on, babe . . .’ Ryan sighs. ‘OK, what do I call you?’

  ‘Naomi. My name.’

  ‘Naomi. Hǎo jiǔ bú jiàn.’ He bows. ‘And I didn’t kidnap you. Or Colt. Everything’s legal. In fact, technically, you’re the only one here who has broken the law.’

  Oh, now, that’s infuriating. ‘What law?’

  ‘You drove past the Restricted Area signs, so; trespassing, compromising national security, blah blah.’

  ‘What are you going to do, kill me?’

  There’s a long pause before he smiles, and says, ‘What do you take me for?’

  Naomi says nothing.

  Ryan tenses in his chair. ‘Do you not believe I am a man of honour?’

  Naomi says nothing.

  ‘I really did love you, Naomi.’

  Naomi says nothing.

  Ryan closes his eyes for a while. Breathes out. Opens his eyes and looks at her.

  Naomi says nothing.

  Eventually Ryan says, ‘You’re a white, well, kinda white, middle-class American citizen. Of course I won’t kill you. I’ll just get our lawyers to tie you up in so much litigation that you will never work in a lab again, and you will never see Colt again. And now, I’ve got a meeting.’

  ‘Where’s Colt?’

  ‘We will work this out, soon, don’t you worry. Meanwhile, I’ll get Lloyd to show you some of our facilities.’

  ‘You don’t do any biological work!’

  ‘We’ve got a very broad remit. If it improves national security, we’ve got a budget. We could build you the perfect lab. Seriously. Think about it. We can talk again in an hour or so.’

  He comes around the table in his chair, slaps her on the back as he ushers her out. The tall, polite guy and another officer are already waiting outside the door, to escort her.

  The door closes with a whoosh, tight to the frame.

  Great. She’s gone. What the fuck is he going to say in an hour?

  Colt has been messaging him for ten minutes. Ryan waits till Naomi is definitely off his level before answering.

  ‘Dad, I’ve found something.’

  91

  ‘It’s him.’

  ‘Talk me through it.’ Ryan sits behind the big silver table, head bowed, with his fingers on his temples, concentrating, as Colt explains.

  When Colt’s done, Ryan sits up straight.

  ‘Very good. VERY good.’

  Colt’s eyes blur a little, and his cheeks start to tingle, to burn.

  Across the table, Ryan has an idea. Hesitates.

  Well, it won’t make much difference at this stage. Embed him as deeply as possible. Blood the kid. Get him to commit.

  ‘OK,’ Ryan says. ‘Now we kill him.’

  ‘And why do we want to kill him?’ asks Colt, still blushing, just to change the subject.

  ‘Why? Because he wants to kill us.’

  ‘Uh huh,’ says Colt. ‘And why does he want to kill us?’

  ‘Because we’re there,’ says his father.

  Colt isn’t sure if his father is making a joke. ‘And why are we there?’ says Colt.

  Ryan gives Colt a quizzical look. ‘Because he wants to kill us.’

  Colt is about to say something, but stops. OK, there’s a loop coming up. If he asks the next question, and triggers the loop, he might be making a joke, which would be good. But if he’s wrong he’s going to annoy his dad, which isn’t good.

  Risk it, risk it, thinks Colt. A lot of comedy is repetition. It’s probably a joke.

  Colt’s knowledge of this is almost purely theoretical; he did a lot of reading on the subject of comedy, the long summer he first realized that the people around him constantly made jokes. That jokes explained all those sentences he didn’t understand.

  Deep breath. ‘Why does he want to kill us?’ says Colt again.

  Ryan grins. ‘Because we’re there.’

  Colt says, ‘Why are we there?’

  Ryan says, ‘Because he wants to kill us,’ and they both laugh.

  Colt can’t quite believe he made his dad laugh, deliberately. He feels kind of giddy. He wants to do it again. No, quit while you’re ahead.

  ‘OK,’ says Colt, ‘I guess motivation isn’t really relevant in a simulator. But you might want to add it later.’

  ‘Mmmm . . . I’ll authorize the shot,’ says Ryan. ‘Do you want to fire?’

  ‘Oh, cool.’

  ‘Technically, this is a no-no.’ Ryan looks up. ‘But I’m the boss. My project, my code. There are certain privileges. OK, locked on. Take over the controls . . . Fire.’

  Colt fires.

  The pickup explodes.

  The observation drone hovers lower. Films the aftermath.

  They study the burning wreckage. Something secondary explodes, maybe an RPG, and a door flies off, tumbles away downhill, and out of shot. It looks wrong, such violence, in silence. ‘It needs sound,’ says Colt.

  Ryan shifts in his chair. Says nothing.

  Colt frowns, leans forward.

  ‘What?’ says his father.

  ‘It doesn’t look real enough. You can’t really see the body.’ Colt leans back, puts his palms flat on the tops of his thighs, and pushes hard, to stop his thighs trembling. ‘It’s just this black thing in the cab.’ He pushes harder. ‘Could I work on the graphics if I came here?’

  ‘Colt, you . . . What do you mean?’

  ‘This is a simulator, right, for training,’ says Colt. Yes, it’s a very good simulator, he says to himself. ‘So, it’s basically a game. And realistic gameworlds, I mean, they’re my specialty.’ There are urgent thoughts, feelings, coming up from his subconscious, new connections trying to get made; but he repeats to himself, it’s a simulator, just a very good simulator, until the thoughts retreat into the dark. ‘I think I could make it more real.’ There’s something wrong with his father’s face. ‘Seriously, Dad. The game part of it could be better.’

  Pause. ‘Yes,’ says Ryan. ‘I guess you could call it a game.’

  Colt’s not feeling good. His stomach is churning. Maybe it’s the pomegranate cupcakes. Too many cupcakes.

  Something about a sheet of paper, among all the papers on his father’s desk, catches his attention. Makes a connection.

  ‘Who did this?’ says Colt. He reaches forward, and picks it up.

  Little hairs begin, one by one, then in waves, to stand erect on the back of Ryan’s neck. Danger. He pauses to think through all the implications of a reply. ‘I wrote it.’

  ‘No, who scribbled on it?’ says Colt.

  Pause. ‘I scribbled on it.’

  ‘No.’ Colt’s voice is firm, and Ryan marvels at how adult he seems. Sometimes. ‘You don’t speak Latin,’ says Colt.

  ‘What’s Latin got to do with it?’

  Colt turns around the piece of paper. Naomi has scribbled out the letter ‘h’, the words ‘case for project’ the letter ‘m’ . . . All that’s left is ‘Te infinite amo.’

  Te infinite amo.

  ‘What?’ says Ryan.

  ‘I love you infinitely,’ says Colt. ‘In Latin.’

  Ryan stares at Colt. Back at the paper. Jesus fucking Christ . . .

  ‘Mama is here,’ says Colt. ‘Where is she?’

  Ryan closes his eyes. Thinks for a second.

  Yeah, making decisions is what you do.

  He calls Lloyd. ‘Bring back Naomi Chi
ang.’

  ‘Sir, with all due respect, I discussed this with . . .’

  ‘Do it.’

  92

  Lloyd arrives, suspiciously quickly, ahead of two corporals flanking Naomi. He can’t have brought her far. Where were they? What has Naomi been saying?

  Ryan sees Lloyd is trying to catch his eye.

  ‘Thank you, Lloyd,’ says Ryan. ‘You can leave now.’

  ‘Sir . . .’ says Lloyd, glancing back at Naomi.

  She has gone straight to Colt. Probably wants to hug him, thinks Ryan. But that tends not to work out too well. No; she’s holding his hand. He’s letting her do it. Interesting. Improving.

  And Colt looks at his mother; his father, his mother; his father.

  Back and forth, thinks Ryan. Like he’s hypnotized.

  Ryan gets an odd, faint memory, of the three of them standing like this, in a tense standoff, when Colt was a kid. Where exactly, and why? It won’t come to him. Ryan suppresses the tiny shrug he’s about to make. Years of conscious control over body language, it’s become automatic.

  ‘My wife,’ says Ryan quietly to Lloyd. ‘My child. I’ll deal with this.’

  Naomi hears him, turns, opens her mouth to snap, ‘Ex-wife.’ Closes it. No. This officer is trying to get her back out of the room. And she wants to stay in the room, with Colt. ‘It’s fine,’ she says to Lloyd. ‘Seriously, it’s fine.’

  The officer glances at her, at Colt. At Ryan.

  Lloyd straightens up and goes for it. Ryan feels curiously proud of him. ‘Sir, I’m going to have to contact the Department, and file a formal . . .’

  ‘Get out,’ says Ryan.

  ‘Sir.’

  Lloyd waves the two corporals out, and leaves.

  The door closes with an airtight suck. Like a kiss, thinks Naomi. Like a kiss. She lets go of Colt’s hand.

  And as Ryan and Naomi stare at each other across the room and their faces change expression, pour out strange information that Colt can’t quite decode yet, he looks at his father; his mother; his father; his mother. Look at what just happened to Mama’s face . . .

  It is as though he has never seen his parents’ faces before.

  Unconsciously, Colt reaches up, adjusts the visor of his helmet, as sharp new thoughts cut through him.

  She changes, when she sees Dad. To protect herself. To feel safe. She changes her face. The way she stands. Do other women do that, too? Wow, women can’t be themselves, when they are in the room with him. He is a distortion field. Angry. He makes them not be themselves. And he doesn’t know. He thinks women are like that all the time. He doesn’t know.

  He wants to . . . oh wow.

  Colt doesn’t want to think the word, but it’s the right word – the other words he tries in its place don’t work – so he finishes the thought.

  He wants to fuck them.

  All of them.

  Colt has never realized this before, and he pauses over this strange thought.

  Has Dad ever seen a woman be herself?

  ‘Well,’ says Ryan. ‘My family. All in one place. This is better than Thanksgiving.’

  There’s a kind of glee in Ryan’s voice that makes Naomi uneasy. ‘So, what happens now?’ she says.

  They both lean towards each other, intense, joined by a tremendous contradictory energy, pulled together and pushed apart, mouths moving before the other has ceased speaking.

  Ryan laughs. ‘Well, my career is going to end, pretty soon. But meanwhile . . . procedures must be adhered to.’

  ‘There is such a thing as the chain of command,’ says Naomi, and finds she is smiling. An old joke, from their early days as a couple.

  ‘Yeah.’ Ryan grins. ‘And they’re going to pull the chain. Hard.’ Ryan rocks his wheelchair back onto its rear wheels. Balances it there.

  Dada has no legs.

  Dada has no legs.

  He hasn’t called his father dada, thought of his father as dada, since he was seven.

  Colt looks away, looks around the room, looks down at the blank concrete floor, but he can still see the stumps, like a picture projected on a screen. He closes his eyes. Tries to remember something. It’s far back in his rebuilt, rebuilding mind. His mother and his father. They are reminding him of something . . .

  ‘OK, Naomi, we have a problem,’ Ryan says. ‘You know how to create a superweapon.’ He brings the chair back down. ‘And you don’t seem to have any idea how dangerous that is. You would just give it away. To anyone. To everyone. To our enemies. We’re still playing whack-a-mole with that fucking paper you threw out into the crowd in New York. We’ve had to leak fake versions to muddy the waters, we’ve had to lean on scientists who were in the audience. A copy of your original turned up in Europe last month, we had to wipe a foreign government server to get it. You’ve caused us a ton of trouble.’

  ‘And now what; you’re going to kill me?’

  She knows she’s already made this joke, and that it’s not a joke, but she can’t help herself, the joke hides the fear; but her stomach muscles clench when she sees Ryan take the question seriously this time. Not even trying to hide it.

  Colt realizes he hasn’t seen his parents together in many years. He frames them with his hands.

  Like a photograph.

  They made me, he thinks, astonished. They combined their DNA. I am their mixtape, their mashup, their fuckup, their playlist, their greylist, their blacklist, greatest hits, best of, compilation, anthology . . .

  He shakes his head to derail the runaway train of associations. He can’t take his eyes off his mother, his father, their strange energy. His mother’s mouth, his father’s mouth. They must have kissed.

  Ryan is speaking. ‘The system can’t kill you, not without a lot of problems. We have a surprisingly ethical system, Naomi. The system you want to destroy—’

  ‘—I don’t want to destroy it—’

  ‘—Most countries, they’d just kill you. China would bill you for the bullet. This country, bless it, is too stupid to do that. We’ve fallen in love with this idea that we’re some kind of saint among nations. And you know what happened to most of the saints.’

  Naomi snorts. ‘So you’d fight evil by giving the saints better weapons.’

  ‘Well it’s a more effective strategy than arming the bad guys.’

  ‘So do you think we’re bad guys? Because you’re treating us like—’

  ‘No, you’re not bad guys—’

  ‘Good. Then—’

  ‘—You’re more dangerous than that,’ says Ryan, leaning forward. ‘You and Colt are smart people who don’t believe bad guys exist . . .’ Naomi tries to respond, but Ryan bulldozes straight through her. ‘Look, one of the huge advantages America has over most of her enemies is that the bad guys are largely idiots. Especially the fanatics. It helps that all they study are religion and hate. They’re like the Nazis, missing out on the atom bomb because Einstein’s theories were Jewish. I mean, if a thousand dumb fucks in Yemen want to kill you, so fucking what? But get one smart, well-educated enemy – Ho Chi Minh, Bin Laden – or give them a smart weapon, or, worse still, make them smart, then you really have problems.’

  ‘But we’re not the enemy!’ she says.

  He leans in. ‘You’d give it to them,’ he says quietly, so close to Naomi’s open mouth, they look like they are about to bite each other. Or kiss. ‘This power. And they would use it against us. Straight away, they would use it against us. They don’t want to live in the modern world. Which is fine. But they don’t want us to live in it either.’

  Naomi turns away from Ryan, and Colt mourns the broken connection.

  His mother stands up.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ says Ryan.

  ‘I’m leaving, with Colt.’

  ‘Colt stays.’

  ‘I want to go home,’ says Colt. ‘With Mama.’

  The muscles of Ryan’s arm begin to ripple, and Colt assigns a lot of attention to that, because it is puzzling, because somethi
ng connects with something and he doesn’t like the pattern.

  Time slows down, as he gives his new attention to his father’s arm.

  The arm rises from below the table, and the hand is holding a gun, a pistol, a Colt 1911; the classic Army pistol.

  The weapon he’s named after.

  Such a simple machine.

  For a moment, by default – because guns have always meant games – Colt applies game logic; assumes he has transitioned back into the gameworld, or forgotten he was in the gameworld; and Colt reaches for his own gun; but he doesn’t have one.

  And disentangling the levels of reality; realizing that his father is real, and has a real gun, and that Colt is unarmed; this takes up a lot of realtime, because some of the thinking is happening using his old brain structures; it is sloooooow; and his new brain structures can’t decide what to do until he knows what is real and what is not.

  His father’s arm rises and rises, and extends towards Naomi, and Colt can’t believe what his brain is telling him; his brain is having an argument with itself, and it paralyses him.

  My father is pointing a gun at my mother.

  Never point a gun at anything you’re not prepared to shoot.

  My father is trained to kill people.

  Never aim a gun unless you are prepared to fire.

  He has killed people; he could mean it; he means it.

  Naomi sees the gun rise from Ryan’s lap. The end of the metal barrel, facing her, is a bright steel square with rounded corners; in its centre, a round black hole.

  Meanwhile Colt’s new brain structures have run the stats on guns; on domestic violence; military versus civilian gun use in cases of domestic conflict; on everything he knows about his mother and his father; and they are telling him something urgent.

  He’s going to kill her.

  Colt dives forward, arm outstretched, striking the barrel with his palm, knocking it back and up, and his father fires and the heat is incredible as fire and blood and smoke and bone gush from the hole that has just appeared in the back of his hand – astonishingly fast, even with time dilated, the eye can’t register it – and as tiny flecks of blood and flesh speckle across the visor of his helmet, Colt pushes hard, and the snout of the gun actually lodges in the hole it has just blown in his right hand, the gases from the explosion, pressed tight against his palm, having made a hole larger than the actual .45 calibre bullet, and the gun fires again, as Ryan tries to force the barrel down, at Naomi, and Colt tries to keep it aimed at the ceiling.