Mutant Legacy

by Karen Haber

  Alanna selected an apple from the basket on the table and sat before me, calmly peeling it with her sharp telekinetic skills. The fruit bobbed between us in midair, shedding its red skin in lazy whorls to reveal crisp ivory flesh beneath. Alanna took a bite, chewed carefully. And as she chewed, a tiny smile curved her lips upward.

  I imagined the grinning skull beneath her skin. Grinning as it sat on a shelf in a museum. “A fine example of a late twenty-first-century carnivore,” the mechcurator would say. “The only type known to devour its own kind.” The skull smirked at me and I wanted to knock it from the shelf, to smash it into a thousand bone fragments.

  Delusional thinking, a quiet voice in my head informed me. A clear sign of stress.

  In real time an eternity of seconds ticked loudly in the silent room as I stared at Alanna.

  “So you’d murder the whole thing by neglect, wouldn’t you?”

  Alanna stopped smiling. “What did you say?”

  “I didn’t realize that murder was a trait that ran right through our family.”

  “Have you lost your mind?”

  “I’ve misjudged you completely.”

  She stood. “I’m going to call the medics and get you a sedative.”

  “And just maybe the dosage will be too strong?” I cast a mental image at her of vidnews headlines: “Desert Prophet’s Brother Dies. Foul Play Suspected.” “Is that really what you want?”

  “Stop it, Julian.”

  “I just want you to be honest with me.”

  My sister’s face was livid, her calm assured mask ripped to shreds. “How dare you probe me! Stay out of my head. This is the second time you’ve accused me of murder.”

  “Don’t you give a damn about Better World?”

  “It’s too late,” she said. “You should have come to me years ago. I don’t want to have anything to do with the church now. I can’t help you, Julian. And I won’t.”

  “Is this revenge, Alanna? For my cruelty? My ruthlessness?”

  But even that failed to prick her. She gave me a sad, tired smile. “Oh, stop playing games with me, Julian. I’m no longer so ambitious. I’ve gotten older, too, don’t you see? I just plain don’t care.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Believe whatever you wish. I don’t care about that, either.”

  Before I could blow upon the faint ember of her disdain she was on her feet and at the door.

  Desperately, I tried to stop her. “Don’t you think Rick would want you to help me?”

  “Please don’t mention him to me again.” Her voice was husky, almost a whisper, and her glance convinced me that she really, truly hated me. But she mastered herself quickly and the heat receded from her gaze until all I saw was lukewarm dislike glazed with gold.

  “Goodbye, Julian,” she said. “I suppose I should wish you luck. I think you’ll need it.” And with that, my sister left me to the comfort of the lonely room, the flickering holo fire, and the company of old, old ghosts.

  In the days that followed I could not work, could not sleep. Old memories and doubts I had long thought dead rose up to torment me.

  Although I’ve often considered myself a patient man, now I grew restless and irritated. I scheduled extra sharings to relieve the stress, but even that comfort was only fleeting, and I was getting too old, too tired to hold more than three sharings a week, regardless of my need.

  Age surprises everyone with its gradual limitations. I’ve tried to tell myself that I’ve grown accustomed to the shortened attention span, limited energy, and unreliable memory. But one can never quite grow accustomed to the machine running down and beginning to fail. I’ve tried to take it gracefully. I haven’t always succeeded in the attempt.

  One of the greatest frustrations for me was the effect of age on my memory. I’ve found gaps where formerly there were solid walls. And so, if, occasionally, I’ve reframed a sequence or missed a beat, it was only because the fugitive data winked, teasing me. But the past provided consolation, yes it did. I returned to my memories eagerly.

  Once I knew where Rick was, my twinsense itched and ached like a sprained muscle. I stayed away, though, buried my head in routine, and tried not to think about him. Not that I didn’t see Rick. Oh, I saw him all right.

  One evening I got home early, popped the top on a self-cooling red jack, turned on the vid, and leaned back on the floatsofa.

  The vid, set to random dial, scrolled through the channels. Suddenly a familiar image flashed by.

  “Stop!”

  A man with a dark beard, desert tan, and long hair pulled back tightly behind his head was facing the camera and speaking seriously, earnestly. It was Rick. He was dressed in white and his golden eyes were hypnotic, like huge pools of light.

  “Friends,” he said. “Strangers, everyone who can hear me. I bring you joyous news.”

  What in hell was he up to?

  “Each one of us has felt lonely,” Rick said. His voice was silky, embracing. His eyes stared intently out at me, at everyone. “Abandoned and afraid. Let that be the foundation of our commonality. Let us share our experiences with one another. With wisdom. With compassion. With healing intent. This is an invitation.”

  My brother was doing more than talking. I could feel the waves of empathetic energy flowing from him, flowing out of my screen and into my nervous system. As well as I knew him, as closely linked as we had been, I nevertheless fell completely under his spell. It was as though he were speaking directly to me, and me alone. Was this happening in every place where a vid screen was tuned to Rick’s message? Was every viewer personally communing with my brother? Was it really possible?

  Rick drenched us in ease, empathy, and goodness. “Join with me,” he said, and his voice was a soothing, compelling caress. “Become a friend. We are waiting for you. I am waiting for you.”

  He nodded and his image slowly faded, to be replaced by golden, glowing holo letters that seemed to jump from the screen. Behind them, the camera panned over the Sangre de Cristo mountains at sunrise while a gentle mellifluous voice told me all about Better World.

  “Help yourself. Help those you love. Comfort and understanding can be yours. New friends await you in an atmosphere of support and acceptance. We’re here for you. Help yourself and help others through Better World, a service organization.” A fax and phone number followed.

  The glow of good feelings persisted long after the letters had faded from the screen.

  Then the scene shifted to a white room without windows in which a man sat facing the camera. He had gray hair and a well-baked reddish-brown tan. He twisted his hands nervously as my brother walked into camera range.

  Rick leaned over the man in the chair, talking quietly, and coaxed him to stand. As he rose to his feet I could see he was tall and sharp-featured, with all the stigmata of the seriously disturbed. He seemed nervous, even agitated, hands fluttering in tight circles. Rick took hold of the man’s shoulders.

  I knew that Rick was both calming him and scoping out the psychological territory with a quick mind probe. The man smiled, closed his eyes, lowered his hands to his sides.

  My brother leaned close to the man, frowning. Then he nodded intently. He must have found the damaged areas. I made an educated guess at Rick’s approach: he would probably work on the memory first. The key to the chemical imbalance underlying the man’s problem might be beyond Rick’s analytical skills. But maybe not.

  Rick’s concentration increased as he went to work. The patient’s face relaxed, the jaw went slack, creases at the mouth and eyes were less apparent.

  Despite my uneasiness I felt a pang of real envy as I watched Rick. How easily he rewired the synapse paths, rejiggered the neuro-transmission levels, and removed the abnormalities in the cerebral cortex. He probably even erased one or two knife-edged memories while he was at it. Oh, I knew what he was doing—I could almost feel him making each move. Twinsense saw to that.

  Rick whispered something that the microphone failed
to pick up. Slowly the schizophrenic’s face cleared. His eyes, when he opened them, were focused and bright. The haunted, hunted shadows in them were gone. His nervous twitches and tics had vanished. Clutching my brother’s arms, he laughed a laugh of liberation.

  “God bless you,” the man said. “God bless you for what you’ve done for me. It’s like a miracle. You don’t know what I’ve been through, me and my family. You don’t know. Thank you. Oh, thank you.”

  Rick’s face glowed with delight. Tears sparkled in his eyes, and in mine as well. For a moment I forgave Rick the peculiar sideshow he had just staged. What he wanted to do was to help, to heal. He was convinced that he could ease others’ pain. And, apparently, he could.

  But why in God’s name had he chosen to do a public healing on the main vid channels? There had to be some other, more dignified way to get his invitation across.

  Rick’s image faded, and the orange New Mexican sun was back, rising over the dark hulk of the Sangre de Cristos. A gentle voice said that such cures could be found through Better World. Again, the phone and fax number were shown.

  Oh, Rick, I thought. Watch out. Be careful. Don’t take on more than you can handle.

  After my brother’s little show, the real fun began. Carmen Ventura, a popular talk-show host, interviewed a therapist, two ministers, a Rotarian, a priest, a rabbi, an abbess, and an imam about what they had just seen. They took considerably more time to fulminate than Rick had taken to cure one entire human being. One measly little five-minute miracle followed by an eternity of interpretation by talking heads: it was a synoptic history of organized religion.

  Ventura, obviously primed and looking to stir up controversy, began her show practically salivating with anticipation. “You’ve seen the miracle,” she said. “You may have heard about the group of true believers who follow this man, almost worshiping him out in the desert. Is this just one more trend or is this Rick truly a miracle worker? What do you say, Rabbi?”

  Judith Katz, rabbi of Temple Beth Shalom in Miami, frowned at the camera and said, “This seems like some sort of circus trick to me. I refuse to give him or his group credence. He’s a performer, pure and simple.”

  Ali Haddad, first speaker of the Center for Moslem Studies in New York: “This is evil, ungodly, he will be struck down. No one may masquerade as Allah’s divine healer.”

  Said Dr. Irena Strugatsky, “It was a fascinating demonstration of healing—if that’s what actually took place. I’d be interested in studying this further.”

  Elder Robert Martin of the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter-Day Saints in San Diego: “We’re uncomfortable with the implications of this man’s actions and are investigating the entire group carefully.”

  Sister Catherine was the only dissenting speaker. “If he did help that man, isn’t it amazing?” she said. Her eyes glowed with wonder. “How marvelous to think that such powers exist and can be used to heal people.”

  For the most part, those interviewed seemed to be united in their sense of uneasiness—even fear—and mistrust. Who could blame them? Rick offered new and different miracles. Wondrous stuff. How could their religions, their therapies and disciplines, hope to compete? And could they afford to look foolish, publicly applauding the acts of a possible charlatan? No, no, it was much more prudent to condemn first and, if necessary, endorse later.

  And then the calls started—I never knew how the reporters had gotten my phone number. Probably Metzger had given it to them. In any case, I quickly found myself uncomfortably spotlighted as a leader of the loyal mutant opposition to Rick.

  “Dr. Akimura? This is Tom Quinas for Eye-Five Vidnews. I understand you represent a group of mutants who are actively opposed to the efforts of the Better World group. Would you care to comment on the healing that the man some are calling the Desert Prophet just effected?”

  “How did you get my number?”

  “Dr. Akimura, why are you and other mutants so opposed to Better World’s stated policy of community service?”

  “I don’t know that I can speak for other mutants,” I said carefully, feeling pangs of ambivalency. “I know that some mutants feel this group has all the earmarks of a cult and they’re uncomfortable with the potential for extreme behavior that’s usually associated with cults.”

  “You’re a psychiatrist and healer, isn’t that so?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “In fact, you specialize in combining mutant and nonmutant healing techniques in the psychiatric therapeutic process, isn’t that so?”

  “Yes, I try—”

  “Isn’t that the same thing as what this Desert Prophet is doing?”

  “Not at all. As far as I can tell he isn’t trained as a healer. Not even remotely. I question his credentials. And his motives.” I hoped that Rick was hearing this. Perhaps I could encapsulate my own message to him within my public pronouncements.

  “Do you deny that he helped that man?”

  “I have no way of telling what actually took place without physically examining the patient.”

  “Why do you think they televised that event?”

  “To publicize Better World, of course. And to draw others into its embrace.”

  “Which the majority of mutants do not support, despite the presence of a mutant at the helm of this Better World group?”

  “I would prefer to say that a large group of mutants doesn’t feel comfortable with it. I don’t think anyone, anywhere, is ever entirely comfortable with the formation of a cult.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Akimura.”

  The next call after that was from Joachim Metzger.

  “I saw that live feed just now,” he said. “A good beginning. But you must be firmer. More insistent.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to write me a script?”

  He chose to take that as a joke and smiled broadly. “You seem to ad lib well, Julian. But remember that you represent more than yourself when you speak.”

  I answered irritably. “Yes, yes, of course. The Mutant Council. Mutants in general.”

  “And me,” he said. “Don’t ever forget that you represent me.”

  As I had specified to Metzger, the reporters had no idea of my real relationship with Rick—I can only imagine the fine time they would have had hounding my parents, Narlydda, and anybody else they could ferret out of the genetic records. But Rick remained something of a mystery man—where had he come from? Who was he? I certainly wasn’t saying. All I was saying was, “This must be stopped. This is no good. This is dangerous.” I was becoming a sort of negative shadow of Better World, dogging reports of their activities whenever they appeared on vid.

  Which is not to say I was comfortable with my new prominence—not in the slightest. And I began to see that Joachim Metzger wasn’t much happier—perhaps he resented my public stance as a mutant representative when I was not even a Book Keeper. But hadn’t he enlisted my support? I would happily have relinquished my role as media contact and mutant talking head in a moment, but that was not to be.

  Finally, even my mother called me. Either she had forgiven my intransigence against Rick or just decided to overlook it. “Julian,” she said, “I saw you on the vid.”

  “I thought we weren’t talking to each other.”

  “You take what I say too seriously.” She smiled. “You’re pretty good, you know? But you ought to even out your complexion with some foundation before each broadcast.”

  “I’ll try to remember that. Did you call to advise me on my makeup?”

  “Don’t be silly. Have you talked to your brother?”

  “Not recently.”

  “Well, good luck if you try. Julian, believe it or not, I have to get on a waiting list to talk to my own son.”

  “Be glad you’re not working the anchor desk for vidnews,” I said. “You could probably get an exclusive with Rick, but you’d be ninety years old before you reached him.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Mom said. “But if you do get through to him,
Julian, tell him to call me. Remind him that even the Desert Prophet has a mother.”

  6

  by the time of rick’s next vidded miracle, I was a seasoned media performer, able to provide an extemporaneous sound bite without batting an eye.

  When the first reports came in, no one seemed to know where the fire had started at the Grande Gorge Theater in Taos, New Mexico. Perhaps some wiring had shorted out. Perhaps it was arson. The flames spread with frightening velocity until half the theater was ablaze.

  Members of the Taos volunteer fire department raced to the scene but they were too late. Some of the support structures in the walls were old, made of a ferro-ceramic manganese, and there’s nothing a manganese fire likes more than water. When the internal sprinkler system came on it spread the fire quickly and efficiently to the other parts of the building. The volunteer firemen just made it worse. Other structures nearby were in real jeopardy and there was the clear threat of a major catastrophe if the fire could not be contained.

  Regardless of the size of the blaze, this was a news item that would scarcely have merited a quick mention in the morning national news roundup if not for Rick’s intervention.

  The local Albuquerque vidnews team had caught Rick’s arrival as he teleported almost directly into the inferno, a strange, dark silhouette poised against the flames. He sized up the situation, teleported everyone else out of there, including all the firemen, then closed his eyes and did something to smother the flames. In ten minutes, the theater was a smoking ruin, but the fire had been extinguished. Rick vanished and the tape ended.

  A white-haired reporter stepped in front of the camera and said, “Later investigation revealed that the molecular structure of the surviving manganese wall supports had been disrupted to prevent them from igniting. Fire officials speculate that the oxygen in the station was somehow converted to carbon dioxide, smothering the fire. The New Mexico Movie Company that owns the theater is offering a reward to the mysterious mutant known only as Rick who evidently halted this fire single-handedly. Anyone with information on this man is asked to please contact the New Mexico Movie Company and/or New Mexico state troopers.”