Mutant Legacy

by Karen Haber

Yes, indeed, my dear Madame CFO. At least I certainly intended to make every attempt at it.

  The meeting ended quickly after that with smiles all around and a great show of false fellowship. Barsi even offered to escort me back to my quarters but I shook her off.

  “No, my dear. The old man wants to be alone.” And for a moment, a precious, regretful moment, I gazed upon her lovely dark face. She wore golden bells that hung from her ears and her dark braids like metal flowers. I had come very close to loving her, in my way. Despite her sudden betrayal I found myself warming to her yet again. But no. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Alone in my rooms I realized that I needed help—reinforcements. And quickly. Very soon now, the administrators would seize control of Better World and run it as they saw fit as a corporation in the business of self-perpetuation rather than the service of others. I couldn’t hold them off alone. But I couldn’t let it happen. It would make a mockery of everything I had worked toward, and my brother before me. It was unbelievable: once again I was being forced to fight for control of this blasted, sainted organization.

  Rick, are you laughing?

  At night when the bare branches rub against one another groaning like a poorly strung violin I think I can hear your laughter in the trees.

  Memory plays tricks on an old man and the ghosts of past days waver before my eyes like old-fashioned projected movies. My parents wave from a faded frame. And there’s Narlydda, a gifted artist, and her husband Skerry, my true father. Killed by my only brother, Rick. Yes, that’s correct. The Desert Prophet was a murderer who committed that most Grecian of crimes: parricide. But that truth is hidden safely in the past along with my ghosts. I’ve seen to that. No one is alive now to remember it. No one but me. And Alanna.

  And now I must turn to her. My half-sister, daughter of Narlydda and Skerry. Of all my ghosts she is the only one with substance. We have not spoken in years. But I remember her number easily and put through a call on my private, shielded line. Her message field answers: Alanna disdains simulacra.

  “Help me,” I say to the orange, glowing screen. “You are the only one, Alanna, the only other who remembers …”

  The years spin backward and I recall them all too clearly. Daylight came and went, the seasons moved through their ritual dance for six long years after Skerry died, and never in all that time did I receive word from Rick, whom I had sent into exile. Not that I expected it. At first I had felt incomplete without my twin, an emotional amputee. But with time I grew accustomed to that phantom ache, and Rick faded, faded until he was transparent as a specter, almost disappeared.

  The Mars Colony that multinational forces had established in the middle of the century was a huge success—and, after the New Delhi spill, very popular with refugees. I half believed that Rick had joined the outflux to the red planet and for a time I took a certain pleasure in imagining him pitting his remarkable skills against that harsh, alien world, forcing it to yield to his will and the need of the colonists. That was in 2062, I think, or 2063—toward the end of the nine-year drought in the Western Hemisphere. A year of food riots, it was. At first there were so many hungry people. And then so many dead. It was a haunted year, and I was only slightly surprised when I received a letter from one whom I had come to regard as a ghost. It came in a creased, stained, old-fashioned postal envelope stamped with an address, some P.O. box in Portales, New Mexico.

  The message inside was simple: “Come, Julian. I can be reached here. Join me.” The paper was yellow, almost antique in texture, and the message was the echo of some old, old dream. It was not so much a request as a summons, unsigned. But that didn’t matter. I knew who had sent it.

  For days I pondered it, touched the paper, realized that Rick had sent me something tangible so that I could not dismiss him lightly. But I was not ready to deal with him. Despite the temptation to respond I forced the notion away from me and buried the letter—and my brother—deep within a file drawer safely out of sight and mind. Stay away, Rick, I thought. Stay safe, and keep us all safe.

  A week later I was at Mass. General consulting on a case when I received the summons from Joachim Metzger, Book Keeper of the newly merged Mutant Councils.

  “We have located your brother, Dr. Akimura. Please come at once.”

  This time I moved: canceled meetings, sessions with clients, social engagements, and hopped the shuttle to California. Would Rick be there, unchanged, full of life and anger and danger, shaking his fist at the world?

  The meeting hall was as I remembered, somber greens and browns stenciled along the redwood-paneled walls. A hundred pairs of golden eyes turned to gaze as I walked in. But none belonged to my brother. He wasn’t at the meeting, nor anywhere in sight, and for a moment I was relieved. He was still just a shadow at the back of my memory, a tingle at the base of my neck.

  Joachim Metzger sat at the center of a long platform that had replaced the original Council table. He was a big, ruddy man with a square jaw, generous fleshy folds beside his wide mouth, and a head of curling white hair that fell almost to the shoulders of his purple Book Keeper robes.

  “You said something about knowing my brother’s whereabouts—” I began.

  “Dr. Akimura,” the Book Keeper said. “We know exactly where he is.”

  I didn’t expect that. This Metzger was disturbingly direct. There was no way to dodge his probing golden gaze. “Where is he?” I said.

  “In New Mexico.”

  “How do you know?”

  “His mental footprint is distinctive,” Metzger said, and a faint smile played across his face.

  “Well, then you’ve found him,” I said “Is that what you dragged me across the country to tell me?”

  Metzger wasn’t smiling anymore. “Of course not. If he was just sitting in the middle of New Mexico, minding his own business, we wouldn’t have bothered to contact you at all. Unfortunately, he’s not. In fact, that’s the last thing he’s doing.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Dr. Akimura, we fear that your brother is building some sort of cult.”

  “A cult?” I couldn’t have been more amazed if he had told me that Rick had decided to run for President of the United States. “What are you talking about?”

  “We’ve had reports of a so-called miracle worker wandering around New Mexico.”

  “That’s all?” I almost laughed. “There have always been crazy stories about holy men wandering around in the desert. It’s a favorite archetype.”

  “That may be, but this archetype is doing things that only Rick Akimura could do. And people are flocking to him.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Metzger nodded without losing a beat. “The first we heard of him was over a year ago—something about a hermit who was working miracles among the ranchers. Somewhere near White Sands. Next we began to hear about a poltergeist. A kindly one.”

  Now I did laugh. “A friendly poltergeist? And what did this nice ghost do?”

  “Started stalled skimmer engines. Broke ice in the wells. Redirected dust storms. One man was saved from an angry bull that had him cornered in a pasture: he was lifted right up and over the animal as it charged.”

  “So,” I said. “One old man on an isolated ranch was saved by a miracle. At least, that’s what he says. More likely he had a touch of home brew before he went for a walk in the meadow. And because of that tipsy old man I asked for leave and came rushing out here?”

  “There’s more—that was just the beginning,” said Metzger. “The stories have been pouring in of missing horses and sheep miraculously returned, of lost hikers who felt their feet being guided to safety, and even of a diverted landslide in the Sangre de Cristo mountains.”

  I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. That sounded like Rick all right, but I wasn’t eager to publicly confirm Metzger’s theory without more evidence. “Any passing telekinete who cared to could have pulled most of these stunts,” I said.

  “And would any passing telekinete have been a
ble to teleport a nonmutant little girl to a hospital after an accident? Or stop a freak flood? Smother a lightning fire in the woods?”

  “What’s your source for this?”

  “A friendly reporter. Watch this.”

  The lights dimmed and a wallscreen came to life as a tape of vidnews began flashing headlines: “Lost Child Found Alive in Desert by Charity Group,” “Good Samaritans Save Starving Family,” “Do-Gooders Build Desert Cult,” “Wilderness Guru Holds Transcendental Meetings,” and “Thousands Join New Mexican Cult.”

  Next, we saw a group of people wearing blue and green jumpsuits wading into an angry mob of field workers who were threatening to torch a farm collective. The scene shifted and the same group was there when a megatanker turned over in the Gulf of Mexico.

  Among them there was a trim, muscular figure who wore jeans and a work shirt. He had a brown beard and wore a black, western-style hat. He was obviously a telekinete, for he held out his arms and seemed to right the ship, forcing the oil back into the tanker’s hold. But his features were unclear—he could have been anyone, anyone at all.

  The next image was more startling: the same bearded man stood in the center of a huge auditorium. A spotlight picked him out of the darkness and made him seem to glow with his own vibrant power. All around him people had joined hands, closed their eyes, and bowed their heads. They were smiling, all of them, with a quiet ecstasy that unnerved me.

  Within the Mutant Council chamber the reaction to this scene was explosive.

  “He can’t do that!”

  “It’s against everything we believe. Only Book Keepers may hold a sharing.”

  What’s he up to? Why doesn’t he come to us if he wants to conduct a sharing?

  Hush, Joachim Metzger told the assemblage. Be silent and watch.

  A plump, red-haired woman two seats away from me broke in. “Book Keeper, he seems kind of harmless. I mean, all I’m hearing about this group is that they do good deeds. What’s so terrible about that?”

  “Nothing terrible at all,” Metzger said smoothly. “In fact, his intent is admirable. But his group shows signs of growing beyond a personality cult. He already frightens people with his powers. If his organization gets too big, it could create a wave of terror, a backlash against all mutants.”

  I jumped to my feet. “Hold on now. Don’t you think that’s kind of paranoid?”

  He gazed at me a moment and I saw pity in his glance. Then he addressed me privately through mindspeech.

  Dr. Akimura—Julian, please—sit down. We haven’t taken a vote yet. We intend to remain neutral as long as possible.

  Rick should just be left alone, I told him. He’s acting out a terrible penance.

  Some of us know that. And we feel for your brother. Truly, we do. But the threat to all mutants from a backlash is just too great.

  Do you really believe that, Metzger?

  Regardless of what I personally believe, officially, I must endorse this policy of investigation. I represent the combined Mutant Councils.

  And if you all judge Rick and his cult to be wrong, what then, Book Keeper? What then?

  Then he will have to be stopped. Humanely, of course. But I’m sure that, given time, he will cooperate with us. I remind you that we have a greater responsibility to society. Rick is seen as a renegade. And the Mutant Councils believe there is nothing worse than a renegade, especially one with enhanced skills. If nothing else, he at least must donate his plasm to our geneticists—and his sperm to our sperm bank, too. If he cooperates in these areas, perhaps we will agree to leave him alone. But please, watch the rest of our vid report.

  Still furious, I took my seat as, onscreen, the scene changed to show parched land and low hills. I saw a mock-adobe building in front of which stood a buffed and polished vid reporter with red and black striped hair and a matching stretch suit. As I watched, she knelt down and began talking to a thin little girl with blond hair and green eyes.

  “Now, sweetheart,” the reporter said. “Tell us again what happened to you in the desert.”

  The little girl nodded mechanically, as though she had been carefully rehearsed. “We were going fast, real fast,” she said in a soft, high voice. “The skimmer fell down off the road, on its side. Daddy bumped his head and didn’t move. So I got out of the car.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I was scared.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I was crying. And then he was there.”

  “Who?”

  “The man with golden eyes.”

  “And what did he do?”

  “He picked me up in his arms, said, ‘Close your eyes,’ and threw me into the air.”

  “And where did you land?”

  “Near a bunch of policemen. In Albuquerque.”

  The vid clip froze, faded, and another replaced it. A reporter eagerly told us all about the wonders of a flash flood that had been held back “by magic” in northern New Mexico—I seemed to remember hearing about the incident months ago. In turn, this clip was replaced by one describing a fire set off by lightning that had threatened to destroy several miles of forest in the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo mountains. Mysteriously, the blaze seemed to have extinguished itself.

  “Teleportation?” I said aloud. “Turning back raging flood waters? Forest fires snuffed? I’ve got to admit that it sounds like Rick. That is, if any one person was really responsible for these acts. Which I doubt.”

  Metzger stared at me as though I were the village idiot. “You may doubt it, Dr. Akimura. But people are beginning to make shrines and leave offerings in the New Mexican wilderness.”

  “Offerings? What do you mean?”

  “Food. Money. Liquor. And that, in turn, is bringing a lot of hungry scavengers out into the desert. The New Mexico State Police are complaining about that. Meanwhile, certain groups of Pueblo Indians have begun holding a dance in honor of what they’re calling the desert spirit. That draws tourists and the press. And a flock of so-called pilgrims has grown up around him. Not only do they support him, they protect him as well, keeping out investigators and busybodies. We’ve been trying to break through the privacy shield around him for several months without any luck.”

  “The curious will go away eventually.”

  “I wish I shared your confidence,” Metzger said. “But we think this is only the beginning of a very serious problem.”

  “I fail to see the problem.”

  “Keep watching the screen.”

  Now the scene switched to an arid landscape, obviously southwestern, possibly New Mexico. I saw a noisy demonstration, people screaming and flailing as police tried to restrain them. The crowd—predominantly Hispanic with some Indian and Anglo mixtures—was massed outside of a two-story adobe building. As I watched, frightened faces peered out the windows, then vanished within.

  There were holosigns proclaiming Rick as the Antichrist, a mutant menace, and demanding his arrest. Some of the protesters even carried crosses that they waved before them like weapons. They looked angry, angry and frightened.

  But something about the entire scene was a bit peculiar, everybody seemed just a little too well prepared and rehearsed, as though they had been primed by some director, perhaps some religious group. It was easy to see why Rick might scare the caretakers of the remains of organized religions. After all, there had been a gradual falling away from the altars of worship over the last hundred years. Now a magical mutant was drawing attention and admiration, possibly even homage, from truly desperate folk who might otherwise have sought out traditional sources of spiritual solace. And if there had been defections from the hardcore flocks, the priests and elders who oversaw their remaining congregations would no doubt be alarmed, even envious. Better to try to nip this thing in the bud, if possible. But they were foolish. They didn’t see that their very efforts would enflame public interest in Rick and draw media attention right to him.

  The scene shifted again to a kaleidoscope of interviews:
the head of the American Medical Association demanded to see Rick’s credentials for healing. A purse-lipped nonmutant woman wanted to know why the mutants had been withholding their miraculous powers for so long. A therapist begged Rick to teach him his healing techniques. A desperate man appealed to all mutants, any mutant, to reach in and heal his little boy. An old woman wanted the army to arrest Rick or to investigate him right away.

  “As you can see,” Metzger said, “your brother is creating quite a fuss. He’s frightening and confusing the nonmutants. He should be stopped before this gets out of hand.”

  “Yeah,” said a bald-headed mutant. “Who are all those people out there working with him? Maybe he’s gathering some kind of crazy private army.”

  Another chimed in with mindspeech. Arrogant, he was always arrogant. He’s no better than before.

  The outcry spread.

  “He’s dangerous. Do something about him.”

  He’s ignored all of our summonses.

  “The brother. Send the twin to see him. That’s the one he’ll listen to.”

  “That’s hardly likely,” I said. “He never did before.” I was prepared to refute all arguments, to refuse to get involved, when my treacherous conscience spoke up, using my mother’s voice: “You’re wrong, son,” she said. “Rick did listen to you once before. Six years ago. When you told him to go away.”

  And I had sent him away, hadn’t I? At the time I thought he would be gone for good and thank God for it. Why hadn’t he stayed lost, stayed a ghost, safe in the past? Rick in the flesh was too dangerous, too unpredictable. The part of me that was an adult rebelled, resisted, wanted nothing to do with this problem. But guilt weakened my resolve—I had sent my own brother into exile—and the part of me that was still nine years old and a good boy gave in.

  “All right,” I said to my inner and outer persecutors. “All right, Book Keeper. I’ll go to New Mexico. Yes, I’ll go to see my brother.”

  New Mexico is not a balmy place in winter. The desert is sere, cold, and empty. A chilling wind rustles through the dried chamiso before sneaking up inside the back of one’s jacket. The tri-city area of Albuquerque, Santa Fe, and Taos was filled with too many people gone native or trying to get there. A brief exposure was all it took to inoculate me against any desire for turquoise, serapes, or silver belt buckles set with holograms that rippled through traditional Navajo patterns.