Mutant Legacy

by Karen Haber

  Hollywood loved Rick. So, too, did politicians, students, and white-haired old grandmothers. Why not? He was the perfect hero for a nation starved for icons. Best of all, he had answers. He provided solutions.

  Rick easily drew people to him. Originally, Better World had been a loose affiliation of about two dozen folks—ranchers, mostly, some ski bums, a couple of boutique owners, and a miscellaneous handful of ragged homeless folk who had followed Rick in out of the desert.

  They were indefatigable do-gooders, and their numbers spread quickly, into the schools, the neighborhoods, the isolated mesas and arroyos, on mountainsides and along river valleys.

  At first there had been little evidence of their activities outside of local events: standardized test scores began to go up among the New Mexican schoolchildren. There were fewer petty crimes and much less vandalism in the schools and streets. The sight of a broken-down skimmer was infrequent, a shattered store window even rarer.

  Less tangible but more important, the sense of community seemed to improve and flourish: people passing on the street waved, called to one another, were kinder and more thoughtful. Everybody was far happier. Who wouldn’t be, with a private superman and his merry band of helpers always available, always on call? I imagined that this was how the early Christians might have felt and behaved when they began to gather in small, hidden rooms and whisper to one another about a powerful, wondrous savior.

  It all worked splendidly for a while simply as a private nonprofit loosely run volunteer service benefiting whoever sent up a distress signal. But word spread quickly.

  What had been a ragtag assortment of trailers and campers gathered around B.W. headquarters coalesced into a neighborhood of sorts. This community was codified even further when, through donations, Better World acquired a nearby property: a defunct recreation area whose existing buildings and facilities seemed ready-made for Better World’s needs.

  The faithful adapted the place and began to plan more structures. A merchant or two moved in to supply food and other basic necessities. Rick seemed pleased. “That’s the way,” he said. “We’ll take care of ourselves and each other.”

  Word of the burgeoning community spread from coast to coast throughout the enclaves of the homeless and disenfranchised. All, all of them, flocked to Taos much to the displeasure of the governor, the mayor, and assorted city officials.

  Those immigrants who agreed to participate in Rick’s sharing sacrament were welcomed and few among them saw reason to refuse. The population of Better World swelled. More buildings were needed. More services, supplies, and merchants arrived.

  Rick began to see that if he was going to help even half of the people who had already petitioned him for his aid, then he had to do it in a standardized, systematic way. Which led to the official incorporation of the Better World, a privately held service organization.

  Its canonization by the media—and its excoriation by all organized religions—is nearly legend now. The Roman Catholic Church, the Mormons, the Moslems, the Protestants, the Jews, and a whole host of various other sects—all complained mightily, noisily, and regularly that Better World was plundering their ever-thinning ranks. The AMA rattled the bars on its cage, citing Rick for practicing medicine and healing without a license. The politicians courted Rick for the votes represented by Better World membership. And, of course, Better World flourished. It was on the cusp, just beginning its flamboyant and astonishing metamorphosis from community group to international cult. Who could have suspected how huge it would become? No one but me and Joachim Metzger, and I hoped that I was wrong.

  The demand for seats at Rick’s sharings became so great that he was forced to hold them in huge sports arenas and theaters. Rick suggested that half of the proceeds from ticket sales be put toward various charities and the rest used to help Better World pay administrative costs. He even designed a subscription series for people who couldn’t get enough of him: five sharings in five cities. The best seats sold out in two hours. After each sharing spectators would come away glowing, satisfied, having gotten their money’s worth and much, much more.

  People flocked to the sharings, scalpers made new fortunes, and the public’s appetite for Rick grew. As for Rick, well, I’m not exactly sure how he felt, what he got out of the sharings—perhaps some momentary relief from the guilt that he carried. Certainly each sharing seemed to take more than it gave, extracting a physical toll from him that could be seen in the new silvery strands glinting in his beard and ponytail, and in the whittling down of his muscular frame to sinew and bone. I told myself it was nothing, that my brother was just one of the lucky ones who would only become spare and wiry as he approached middle age.

  When I first learned of the plans to dedicate Better City I decided that I had to make one last direct personal appeal to Rick to cease, to desist and go away. Since I lacked farspeech I had to call him, and his line, of course, was busy, so I set the phone to auto redial. The screen glowed red steadily—busy—but ten minutes later it switched to blue and the electronic cricket-cheep told me that my call had gone through.

  A familiar measure from an orchestral passage tootled pleasantly, redolent of synthesized clarinets. It took me a moment to recognize the tune: it was from a piece my father Yosh had written in honor of my birth and Rick’s. “Dual Sonata,” he had called it. A playful, spritely work. The music cut off and the screen was filled by a muscular young man with a squarish head, wide neck, and hardly any cheekbones. I couldn’t tell if he was a sim or for real.

  “Better World,” he said. “How may we help?” His voice was high and surprisingly gentle. A former fullback who sang countertenor in his spare time?

  “I want to talk to Rick.”

  The fullback smiled patiently. “Of course you do. Unfortunately, Rick is very busy right now. Perhaps I can help you.”

  “Look, I’m his brother.”

  The smile broadened. “We’re all his brothers and sisters.”

  “No, really. I mean it.” Irrationally, I wanted to wipe that contemptible look off his face and I scrabbled in my pockets, searching for my hospital identification. I had holocard in hand when the screen image dissolved into jagged lightning bolts before re-forming around my brother’s face. He looked a bit three-dimensional, as though his screen were transmitting in holovid.

  “Little brother!” Rick smiled broadly. “What’s up?”

  His eyes were bright but there were dark circles under them and his face was thin, even drawn. He looked ten years older than when I had last seen him. I suddenly remembered the vid image of him stumbling in Mexico City and I was more worried than ever.

  For a moment I was so stunned by his appearance that I couldn’t speak. Then I found my voice. “My God, you look like a wreck.”

  “Just tired,” Rick said. “Nothing that a good night’s sleep won’t fix.”

  “Bullshit, Rick. You look absolutely depleted. When was the last time you had a checkup?”

  “Hey, did you call to play doctor? Don’t waste your time or mine.”

  “Rick—”

  He turned away from the screen as if to go.

  “Wait—”

  “What is it?”

  My concern flipped over into anger. “Just what do you think you’re doing, Rick? Running yourself into the ground with televised appeals and documentaries on your healings? And now you’re building a city? Even God rested on the seventh day, you know.”

  “Whoa, now cool down, Julian.”

  “No, I won’t cool down.” My hands were shaking and so was my voice. “Do you realize the risks you’re taking? The furor you’ve created?”

  “Sure. And I also noticed that you’ve been one of my loudest critics, Dr. Akimura-of-the-mutants.” His smile was suddenly gone but his tone was still light, almost playful. He was treating me with a certain indulgent fondness that I found completely maddening.

  “Do you blame me? You’re out of control, maybe even irrational.”

  “Oh, so help
ing people is crazy? Since when?”

  “How much of what you’re doing is helping and how much of it is ego gratification, Rick? Sheer grandstanding just for the hell of it.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” My brother sounded just the tiniest bit impatient. “We’ve been all through this, Julian. You, of all people, should understand. You know why I’m doing it.”

  “Not why you’re suddenly publicizing every move you make. When do we get a peek at ‘Rick, the Bathroom Tapes’?”

  “Look, did you call just to do a comedy routine with me or was there something you really wanted to talk about?”

  “Rick, please, you must stop. Abandon this plan to build a city. You’re getting too ambitious, drawing too much attention to yourself. You don’t know the kind of trouble you’re making for yourself and the other mutants.”

  “Trouble? As far as I can see, it’s just the opposite. A bonanza. Everybody wins.”

  “The nonmutants don’t really understand you. They expect all mutants to have your powers and are furious that we all seem to have been withholding our secret talents from them.”

  “Well, in a way, haven’t we?”

  “Meanwhile, the government, various organized religions, and the American Medical Association have been putting a lot of heat on the Mutant Council over you.”

  “Good.”

  “Rick, you don’t know what you’re saying. You’ve almost doubled the population of this area. You’re stretching the available resources too far too fast.”

  “We can take care of ourselves, Julian. You’re the one who seems confused. If you would only come out here and join us, then you’d understand why this construction project is so important—so crucial to my plans.”

  “But an entire city, Rick? Where are you getting the money? The materials?”

  “We’re using what’s already here. And we get a lot of donations.” He winked smartly. “We’ve got international interest in our efforts, little brother. Which translates directly into eurodollars.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Of course not. And I don’t see why the mutants are so upset with me. They won’t be satisfied unless I let them run things, which I can’t do. So they’ve refused to participate as equal partners. Too bad. Let them take some heat. What are they going to do about it, little brother? Send a couple of first-level telepaths after me? I can hold them off in my sleep.”

  “Rick, this might be construed as counterphobic behavior. Are you trying to rub their noses in what you’re doing?”

  “No, of course not. I don’t have energy to waste on petty vendettas, Julian. The time was right for this expansion. Do you know that as a result of our vid broadcasts we’ve gained an extended membership base of one hundred thousand?”

  “My God,” I said. “Are you serious? Can you actually deal with that number? Across the country?”

  “Internationally. Of course we can. Compared to the big boys and girls and their official churches it’s doodly-squat.”

  “Churches? Wait a minute, Rick. I thought Better World was a secular organization.”

  “It’s whatever anybody needs it to be: secular, ecumenical, holy, free lunch, whatever.” He seemed to be spectacularly unconcerned.

  “You know that some people are calling it a cult.”

  “And if they feel better treating it as a cult, what do I care? Especially if it enables me to reach and help more people.”

  “Rick, I thought you wanted this to be a small, grassroots organization.”

  “Things change. They grow and change, Julian.”

  “Into an entire community?”

  “Why not? As soon as Better City is finished, we’ll be able to accommodate three or four times our current membership.”

  “Are you telling me you intend to house the entire membership?”

  “As much as we can. Julian, many of them have nowhere else to go. Better World just fits in where the state and federal safety nets unravel. And it’s amazing what happens to someone who’s been down on his luck when he’s given shelter, regular meals, and work to do. It’s like magic.”

  “Your followers are building you your own personal Xanadu?”

  “It’s not for me, Julian. It’s for them. And they’re good workers, too.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “I wish you would. I need your help more than ever, little brother.”

  “You know how I feel about Better World. I’ve shot my mouth off all over the vid as standing firmly against you.”

  Rick waved away my arguments. “I don’t pay any attention to that, Julian. You have to do what you feel is right, I know that. But there’ll always be a place here for you, little brother. You’re my flesh and blood.”

  “Please, Rick,” I said. “Won’t you stop this foolishness before it all falls in on your head?”

  “Sorry, little brother. You know I can’t do that. But take good care of yourself. And call anytime. You know where to find me.”

  Spring turned into summer, bringing the usual malaise of warm weather. Boston is a city well suited to spring or autumn, the transitional seasons. It even has a certain chilly appeal early in winter when the Charles is thickened with ice and the brick row houses near the harbor wear neat caps of new-fallen snow. But summer leaves the city limp and steaming, draws the life out of it, and sends residents scuttling for deep shadow and beach cottages. Half a century ago, city planners had spurned requests for climate-control domes, arguing that such urban improvements would destroy Boston’s unique character. At the moment I would have settled for a bit less character and a whole lot more comfort.

  I tried to ignore my misgivings about Better World with the distraction of work, and was even somewhat successful. I sweated my way through the days and stumbled home at night, exhausted. But at night my dreams were filled with strange scenes of Rick moving mountains, floating through space, even walking on water. The worst dream of all was—well, I hoped that it was a dream. I told myself it was but I’m still not sure.

  I dreamed that I had slipped into a bottomless, dreamless slumber, falling and falling, but at some hour before dawn I awoke in the dark with the breath caught and sticking in my chest. Someone was in the room with me. I reached out, tapped the bedside module, and the small, round lamp came to life, casting a yellow glow across the room.

  Something golden sparkled by the door. Golden eyes fixed upon me the way a jungle cat stares down its prey.

  I must have jumped almost a foot into the air; the jellbed sloshed as I bounced down against its pliant surface. “Jesus Christ, Rick! What are you doing here?”

  My brother was silent, motionless, leaning against the blue paneling of my bedroom wall like a waxen doll. He appeared dazed, perhaps even hypnotized. Only when I moved did he blink.

  “Hi,” he said. His voice was weirdly furry, so remote that he might have been speaking from another room.

  “It’s two in the morning,” I said. “I thought you were in New Mexico. Are you all right?”

  “I’m hiding.”

  “From what? Whom?”

  “Alanna.”

  “Oh.” I lay back against the pillows, momentarily at a loss for words.

  “I’m not kidding, Julian!” He could barely get the words out. I realized that he had been crying. But why? And were they tears of rage? Desire? Regret?

  The healer in me took over right away. “Easy, Rick. Take it slow. Deep breaths. Tell me what’s happened.”

  He rubbed the back of his hand against his wet cheeks. “I never asked—didn’t expect—didn’t want her back,” he said. “But now she’s here.” His eyes met mine and there was an unspoken plea in them. “Dammit, Julian. I still love her. I still want her. I know I should send her away. But I can’t. I can’t!”

  “Are you crazy?” I said, abandoning in that moment any role but that of brother. “What do you mean, you still want Alanna? It’s impossible and you know that.”

  “Yes, I know.” His voice
was rough, tortured.

  “What did she tell you?”

  “Oh, something about believing in my cause. Respecting Better World and wanting to work with it. I told her no, leave me alone. Go away. But then—”

  “Maybe you’d better tell me what happened right from the beginning.”

  He shot me a sharp look. “Well, she stared, I stared, a Tchaikovsky love theme resounded in the room, and we ran, slow-motion, into each other’s arms.”

  “Rick, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what really went down.”

  “Okay, okay. She made a couple of attempts to reach me but I gave all sorts of excuses. I didn’t want to see her. But she kept on, persisted, and finally, just to get rid of her, I said yes, come over. We just shook hands, both of us kind of stiff and clumsy. I asked her to come upstairs to take a look at the place—Betty nearly had a fit that I was wasting my time on this visitor when we already had an entire tour-guide system set up. But I gave Alanna the whole tour and she did the usual oohing and aahing. Everything was fine—awkward but okay. Just friends, right? Until she was standing by the window, looking out at the mountains. She was so beautiful, you know? And I started to think about how much I’d loved her. Thinking about all that we’d been through. How often, alone, at night, in the desert, I had thought of her. And then I wanted her. Dammit, Julian. I wanted to hold her, wanted to kiss her so badly I nearly went crazy, and well, you can imagine the rest.” He shrugged with actual embarrassment. “It was like she could read my mind. And I’m the one with telepathy, remember? She just turned and held out her arms. It felt as if we’d never been apart for a moment.”

  “And now what?”

  “She wants to close up her house in California and move out to New Mexico to be with me.”

  My heart sank. “And what do you want?”

  My brother shook his head in bewilderment. “I don’t know. One minute I want to run, get away. And the next I can’t wait to get back to her.”

  I hate tilting at windmills, but I decided to make at least one valiant effort to deflect what seemed to be inevitable, so I said, “Let me give you some brotherly advice, all right? Send Alanna home, as quickly as possible.”