Synapse

by Steven James

  Perfect. And so, he begins to fold.

  * * *

  After I’d dried my tears with some of the tissues provided on one of the pews, I stood in silence and watched the holographic Bible verses appear one at a time above the coffin before fading away as the next verse materialized:

  “Jesus said to her, ‘I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in Me, though he may die, he shall live’” (John 11:25).

  “And after my skin is destroyed, this I know, That in my flesh I shall see God” (Job 19:26).

  “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; For You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me” (Psalm 23:4).

  “For we who are in this tent groan, being burdened, not because we want to be unclothed, but further clothed, that mortality may be swallowed up by life” (2 Corinthians 5:4).

  That last verse struck me the most.

  The others were shared often enough at funerals, but the words from Paul’s second letter to the Corinthians weren’t nearly as well-known.

  Mortality swallowed up by life.

  It was a nice thought.

  We groan. We carry burdens. We dwell in these tents—earth suits that bear such diaphanous and easily pierced fabric—as we journey across the sloping arc of the earth on our short trips to the grave.

  The tents are all so temporary.

  We are all so temporary.

  The idea that death might be swallowed up by life was tough to believe at a time like this. When the grave takes those you care about, it sure doesn’t seem like there’s any victory there, or that life is swallowing anything. It sure seems like death is the one coming out ahead.

  Swallowing life.

  And hope.

  And dreams.

  Devouring so, so many of the things that matter most.

  At last, when I was finished, I rejoined Jordan in the hallway and saw that he had something in his hand.

  “What is that?” I asked curiously. “What do you have there?”

  He held it up.

  A sheet of paper, folded into an origami animal.

  “A rabbit?”

  “Yes. May I put it on her coffin?”

  “Why?”

  “To represent my love.”

  “But you never met her, Jordan. You never knew her.”

  “I know her mother, though, and I’ve seen how much she loved her. Is that enough?”

  At first I was going to try to dissuade him, but finally I said, “Yes. It is.”

  Jordan entered the chapel, walked up front, and gently set the origami rabbit beside the stuffed bunny I’d left behind. Then he returned to the hall.

  “Thank you, Jordan.”

  “I wish I had more to offer.”

  I put a hand on his arm. “This is plenty.”

  I wanted to go see the place where Rector Arch and his associates would be burying my daughter so I asked him for a map of the grounds and he uploaded one to Jordan’s system, and then we took off.

  11

  As the two of us crossed the property, mourners began to arrive to attend the other visitation that the rector had told us about earlier.

  The chill of the day seemed appropriate to me as we passed tombstones and grave markers on our way.

  At last, Jordan and I came to the plot of land, a flat spot on the top of the rise outside the Pleasant Hills room, a strip of grass where a little girl might run or skip or cartwheel across the ground.

  Or at least a place where I imagined that happening.

  It would do.

  I knelt and picked up a handful of dirt.

  * * *

  He observes her, wondering if this is part of the ritual.

  Out of respect he kneels as well.

  And with his scarred palm, cups a handful of soil.

  The girl has entered the great dreamless sleep, the dry powder darkness of eternity.

  Kestrel lets the dirt sift through her fingers, and then watches him as he does the same.

  When she speaks to him, her voice is soft and solemn. “Jordan, what were you programmed to believe about God?”

  “I wasn’t programmed to believe or to disbelieve, but rather to be receptive to developing my own perspective organically as evidence presents itself.”

  To better understand Kestrel, he accesses his database to learn more about what it’s like to be a Christian, to believe and to live as they do.

  As she would.

  Does. As she does.

  She is a Christian so she believes.

  “Jordan?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For not saying anything needless. For not trying too hard to fill the silence up.”

  “I wish there was something I could say that would help.”

  No reply to that. But then she asks, “So, can you believe in things that cannot be proven?”

  “You mean God?”

  “God. The afterlife. Anything, really. Beauty.”

  “Beauty?”

  “That it exists.”

  He looks at her curiously, wondering at her words. Where she is going with this. “Are you saying that beauty does not exist?”

  “I’m saying that there’s no logical syllogism for proving that it does, and yet I’d guess that most people would claim it exists, would adhere to a belief they cannot prove. Deduction has little to say about beauty.”

  “And neither does science.”

  She gives him a quizzical glance. “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “Aesthetics perhaps, but that’s more art theory and philosophy than science. In addition, science understands very little about the depths of grief, the meaning of joy, love, justice, heartbreak, hope, or faith—to name a few.”

  Even as he speaks, he recollects a quote from his archives and continues: “The quantum theory pioneer and Nobel Prize–winning physicist Erwin Schrödinger—famous for his cat in a box dilemma—noted in his lectures that the scientific picture of the word is ‘ghastly silent about all and sundry that is really near to our heart, that really matters to us. It cannot tell us a word about red and blue, bitter and sweet, physical pain and physical delight; it knows nothing of beautiful and ugly, good or bad, God and eternity.’”

  She says nothing, and finally he asks her, “How will I know if I believe in God?”

  While he waits for her to reply, he notices two men approaching behind her, coming up the hill. They’re dressed in dark suits and matching ties and walk with firm and direct purpose, despite the uneven ground. His facial recognition program comes up empty—evidently the men are not listed in the public files on the Feeds.

  After a moment of silence, she answers his question about God: “You’ll feel either hope or terror.”

  He considers that. “Hope because of heaven or terror because of hell?”

  “Hope because of God’s mercy extended,” she replies, “or terror because of his holiness revealed.” Then she adds, “But you’re a robot, Jordan, so you don’t have to think about heaven and hell.”

  “Because I don’t have a soul?” he says, returning to their discussion from earlier, when they were at her apartment.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  * * *

  “It appears that we have company,” Jordan told me and pointed past my shoulder toward the chapel.

  I stood, turned, and brushed off my hands.

  In my peripheral vision I saw him rise and do the same.

  Two men were coming our way, traversing the narrow path that led between the graves.

  One of the men was nearly two meters tall, broad-shouldered, and walked with the confident stride of a seasoned athlete. Handsome, yes, and yet, when he looked at me, I found his eyes to be dark and haunted, like he’d seen too much sadness in his life. Or maybe fought too long to keep it at bay, I thought, though I wasn’t sure why that came to mind.

  His partner was slim, moon-faced, and
pale. The stark afternoon sunlight glared harshly off his shaved head.

  The powerfully built man spoke first. “Reverend Hathaway?”

  “Yes?”

  He held up a badge. “I’m Special Agent Vernon. This is my associate, Agent Carlisle. We work with the National Counterterrorism Bureau. We were wondering if we could ask you a few questions about the bombing you witnessed yesterday.”

  I’d been expecting local police, not NCB agents, to speak with me, but now that I thought about it, since it was a domestic terror attack, the NCB did make a lot more sense. “I’m afraid this is not a good time,” I said.

  “I understand,” he replied, and I got the sense that he truly did, that he felt as uncomfortable being here as I did. “We don’t mean to intrude. Perhaps we could wait until you’re done, or set up a time later today to talk?”

  “How did you find me?”

  Agent Carlisle spoke up. “We wouldn’t be very good investigators if we couldn’t track a person’s vehicle, would we?” It seemed like he might have been trying to be funny, but it came across as snide. “Can you just talk us through what happened?”

  I felt my anger rising. “Really? Now? In this place? You’re going to interrogate me at the plot where my daughter is about to be buried?”

  “The sooner we get answers, the better our chances of catching the people behind—”

  Agent Vernon cleared his throat and his partner quieted down.

  From where he stood at my side, Jordan watched the two men inquisitively.

  “And you are?” Agent Carlisle asked him. I couldn’t tell if he recognized that Jordan was an Artificial.

  “My name is Jordan.”

  “Jordan.”

  “Yes.”

  “You have a last name?”

  “No.”

  Intrigued, Agent Carlisle studied Jordan with renewed interest, perhaps finally recognizing that he was not a Natural.

  “It’s remarkable,” he said at last. “The likeness.”

  I felt strangely protective of Jordan and wanted to end this conversation as promptly as possible and get rid of the two agents. “Alright, we can talk on the way back to the chapel.” I took one last heartrending look at the gravesite, then started down the path, both thankful to be leaving and wretchedly sad to be doing so as well. “How can I help you?” I said to them. “What do you need to know?”

  Agent Vernon said, “We understand that you assisted a man named Ethan Bolderson. After the terrorist attack.”

  “Yes. He was injured. By the way, is he alright? Have you heard anything about his condition?”

  “I’m sorry to be the one to notify you of this”—his tone was professional but heavy—“but he passed away.”

  “What?” I took hold of Jordan’s arm to steady myself.

  You didn’t do enough, Kestrel. You should’ve done more to help him!

  “Yes, it’s tragic,” Agent Carlisle interjected. “Did he mention anything about the blueprints of the building?”

  “Blueprints?”

  “We found copies of the production plant’s floor plan on his computer. We now believe that this was an inside job and that Mr. Bolderson was working with the Purists to carry out the attack.”

  “It’s one possibility we’re looking into,” Agent Vernon clarified, with a bit of a rebuke in his voice. “We’re just trying to track down the truth.”

  I let go of Jordan’s arm, collected myself, and then shook my head. “It doesn’t make any sense that Ethan would be involved. If he knew the attack was coming, why would he have been in that part of the building in the first place—or gone that close to the vehicle before it blew up? And why would he leave incriminating evidence on his computer? Is that common in cases like this?”

  “There are always breadcrumbs left behind,” Agent Carlisle said.

  “But a map to the bakery?”

  The two men exchanged glances, then Agent Vernon said to me, “Can you tell us in your own words what happened?”

  As comprehensively and yet as succinctly as I could, I recounted everything I’d seen—the speeding truck, the collision and initial fire, then the fierce explosion after the security personnel had responded, but through it all it seemed like I was listening to someone else give the account, that I was distant from it—an observer on this conversation rather than a participant in it.

  I just wanted this to be over, just wanted to forget the attack and move on.

  As I was finishing explaining how I’d helped Ethan and what he’d said to me, I saw the rector standing outside the chapel speaking with someone whose back was to us. As we approached them, Mr. Arch nodded and then pointed toward me.

  The man he was speaking with turned and looked my way.

  And I stopped cold in my tracks.

  It was my brother, Trevor.

  12

  “What are you doing here?” I asked him incredulously as he walked our way.

  “I came to see you. To see how you’re doing.” Trevor’s attention shifted to the two agents flanking me, no doubt wondering who they might be.

  “I told you not to come,” I said.

  “I know.”

  Realizing that I should probably introduce the men to each other, I pointed to the agents one at a time. “Trevor, this is Agent Vernon and Agent Carlisle from the National Counterterrorism Bureau. They’re looking into the bombing yesterday.” Then I gestured toward Trevor and told them, “This is my brother. You three should get together to talk. Trevor will probably be a lot more of a help to you than I ever could. He’s vice president of Terabyne’s Global Security Division.”

  “Really?” Agent Vernon said with keen interest. “It’s good to meet you.”

  They shook hands.

  Then Trevor looked at Jordan. “Hello, Jordan.”

  “Hello, Trevor.”

  At first, I was a bit surprised that Jordan knew Trevor’s name, but then I realized I’d already used it several times. Also, Trevor had bought him for me. It was even possible that they’d met before today.

  I asked the agents if I could have a moment alone with my brother. “We’ll be right back.”

  The two of us stepped aside. For a second it looked like Jordan was trying to figure out his place, if he should join me or stay with the two agents. In the end, he remained with them, and once Trevor and I were alone, I began, “Listen, I—”

  “Wait. Before you say anything, I just . . . I needed to . . . I’ll leave right now if you want. Are those men hassling you?”

  “They’re just searching for the truth about what happened,” I said. “Why are you here? I was clear with you when we spoke yesterday that I didn’t want you to come.”

  “I had to fly in anyway to work with the team here in investigating yesterday’s attack.”

  That much might have been true, but it didn’t explain why he’d come to meet me at the graveyard.

  “You shouldn’t have come here.”

  “After all this time, that’s it? You’re not glad to see me? Even a little?”

  I almost found myself saying, “Why would I be glad to see you?” but thankfully I managed to hold back.

  “The last time we were together,” I said, “you were making fun of my beliefs, mocking me for being a Christian.”

  “That’s how you remember it?”

  “That’s how it was.”

  Rather than dispute that, he replied, “We both said things we shouldn’t have.”

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  “Your faith isn’t any of my business,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said those things.” But then he added, “And my beliefs aren’t any of your business. Don’t try to change my views or convert me. I’m not interested in religion—yours or anyone else’s.”

  As a pastor I realized I should probably hold back, but as a sister I felt compelled to press things a little. “Let me just ask you one question, then, Trevor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “What would it
take for you to believe in God? I mean—”

  “Really? After what I just said?”

  “I’m just wondering. And then I’ll let it drop. I’m just—”

  “For him to apologize for all the needless pain he allows. We can start with that. And then, for him to somehow make it right—although I can’t think of any way that could ever happen.”

  “So. The problem of pain. The presence of evil.”

  “If he cares for us, why doesn’t he stop our suffering? Leukemia? Alzheimer’s? Smallpox? Are you kidding me? These are examples of God’s goodness? And if he doesn’t care for us, why would you even dream of calling him good?”

  I believed that God did care, but that his ways were inscrutable, that he was sovereign, and that through Christ he had entered our world to redeem us and to make all things new—or at least I told myself I believed these things.

  “Look,” Trevor said, “I didn’t come here to argue with you. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  Pushing him away right now wasn’t going to help anything—and neither would digging in and disagreeing more with him. It wasn’t what Mom and Dad would’ve wanted—and I couldn’t imagine that it was what the Lord whom I claimed to serve would have wanted either.

  “Now isn’t good,” I told Trevor. “But yes, we should catch up. Maybe we could talk tomorrow?”

  “I have meetings all day and then I fly back to Seattle in the evening. What about dinner tonight?”

  I couldn’t think of any good reason to say no. “Alright.”

  We returned to Jordan and the two NCB agents.

  Special Agent Vernon, who appeared to be the one calling the shots, said to Agent Carlisle, “Why don’t you go with Trevor and have him fill you in on what he knows and what his division has uncovered so far.”

  Agent Carlisle eyed Jordan one more time and then said, “Of course, sir.”

  Trevor turned to me. “Just let me know a time and a place for dinner and I’ll be there.”

  “Okay.”

  And with that, he left with Agent Carlisle.

  Agent Vernon watched them return to the parking area. “You’ll have to forgive my partner,” he said. “He’s . . . well . . . enthusiastic about his work, but not exactly the best people person. Anyway, I’m sorry we came here today like this. I know the timing is horrible.” He sighed. “Besides, I never did like doing interviews with two agents present—makes people feel ganged up on. And that’s not what you want when you’re trying to gain their trust and have them open up to you.”