Mutant Legacy

by Karen Haber

  She smiled playfully. “Well, Julian, why don’t you tell me this complicated story?” She crossed her arms and leaned back against the doorway as though she intended to block any retreat I might attempt.

  I concentrated on the triangle of golden flesh revealed at the neck of her blouse and thanked the assembled deities that she hadn’t yet tried to seduce the information out of me: I never would have had a chance of resisting. Instead, I crossed my arms, mirroring her actions. It’s an old psychological ploy, intended to indicate commonality. A useful tool when what you want to do is say no.

  “Nothing I can tell you,” I said casually. “It’s really Rick’s story, anyway.”

  “A twin never has his own singular story,” Star said. “You know that.” She sighed deeply. “I was drawn to your brother as soon as I saw him.”

  Jealousy pricked me. “That’s Rick. He’s like a magnet.”

  “And which pole is your cousin Alanna? Positive? Negative?”

  My voice was level, but inwardly I was seething wildly with desire and confusion. I had to get away from this woman before I did something else foolish. After all, I was no lustful boy, inexperienced and naive. But I didn’t trust myself alone with Star.

  “Let’s go back to your hotel for a drink,” Star said. “I’ll drive, unless you can teleport us there.”

  “You’re talking to the wrong brother.”

  Her smile stirred me mercilessly. “Am I?” Her dark eyes flickered over me. “I’m not so sure.” Swinging her keys, she led me out the door and we squeezed into the tiny cab of her skimmer truck. All during that long, long ride through the streets of Rio I stared out the window at the passing street lamps and concentrated on the white-hot pressure of her leg against mine.

  When we arrived at the Parc Imperium Hotel, everything was quiet and the bar was closed. I was astonished to see that it was four in the morning. The desk clerk yawned as he handed me my room key. I turned to Star, reluctant to let her go. “We could have a drink in my room—”

  “No, I think not. It’s late.” She kissed me quickly on both cheeks. “Good night and good morning, Julian Akimura. I will see you again.”

  “But wait,” I said desperately. “How will I find you?”

  “I’ll find you.” She winked and danced away, out of reach, out of sight.

  “Damn.” I was confused and disgusted. Things had become astonishingly messy for me in no time at all. What did I really feel for Star? Was it lust fueled by fraternal competition? No answers. No clues. The lobby was empty. The elevator flung me upstairs where my lonely room awaited.

  The days that followed were hot, humid, filled with dizzying images of a dozen ritual celebrations and cult activities. Better World had infiltrated Rio, all right. At least, some of it had, as Mundo Melhor, and had immediately been adapted to suit the primal pulse of the macumba drums.

  November turned into December, but although I searched I did not catch even a teasing glimpse of Star again. The drumbeats of samba teams began to echo in the streets near the beaches and my time in Brazil was almost over.

  On December second I was invited to attend a small celebration of Mundo Melhor at a fine home in the moneyed suburb of Laranjeiras. I was surprised to see that Better World had been embraced by the notoriously selfish upper echelons of Brazilian society. Apparently where macumba went, Saint Rick and his helpers followed close behind, even into the houses of the rich.

  The party began at sundown as the pandeiros announced their arrival with a wild eruption of drumming in the garden. The guests hurried out onto the lawn, heads nodding in time, feet tapping. Over here a stately matron was already swirling, eyes closed, her peacock-blue gown’s hem whispering around her ankles, deeply immersed in the mysteries.

  The hostess, a slender, pale-skinned woman with thin red hair and huge green eyes, was next, and then the daughter of the house, no more than fourteen but haughty and with a certain precocious sensuality, joined the dance, swaying her slender arms as though she were floating in the ocean.

  Soon all the guests were nodding and swaying, chanting exultant phrases, men and women twirling around one another in the humid night until they seemed to blur into one another.

  Although I had sworn to maintain an objective distance I found myself caught up in the beat, feeling its pulse vibrate up through the soles of my feet and along my backbone until I could control myself no longer and I was out there on the lawn, nodding, shaking, and capering like the rest of the celebrants.

  As the frenzy built I could make out odd bits of chants that translated into “Rick hear us” and “Rick protect us.” I began to chant along. Somehow, it seemed reasonable, even desirable, to be praying to my brother in fragmented Portuguese, nonsense syllables, and even some English. Even as I did so, the quiet part of me that always sits back and watches took notes for later review.

  I was drenched in sweat, gasping for air, and yet I couldn’t stop. A curious yet familiar sensation crept over me—it felt like the preliminary moments of trance that occur in a mutant group sharing. The air itself seemed to shimmer and I felt a transcendent connection to all of the people there. We were linked, each of us, by our common humanity. We were one. We were responsible for each other, rich and poor, humble and great. I knew it, knew and believed it, to the bottom of my soul.

  And then I saw Star. I hadn’t noticed her in the crowd before, but there she was, serenely swaying not two steps away from me. As I stared at her, she looked up, met my gaze, and smiled.

  “Now you understand,” she said. “Now you are one of us, Julian. You can deny your brother no longer.”

  The drums urged me toward her. Their steady rhythm seemed to pulse in time with my blood: boom boom ba, boom boom ba.

  The primal beat broke through my last reserves of caution, scattered my deepest doubts. Boldly, I danced around Star, defining my territory, hips thrusting, pelvis shaking. We were surrounded by people and yet we might have been completely alone, dancing together. The crowd moved back and away from us, or perhaps we moved away from them. Regardless, all I know is that finally we were alone in a room with a door that locked.

  I turned to face her and Star held her arms out to me eagerly. Her lips were soft, her tongue maddening, and I pulled her down to the warm, welcoming cushions of the wallseat.

  We came up for air. And submerged again. I yanked off her clothing with furious impatience. Her skin was smooth and warm, a delight to kiss. I spent a long, luxurious time on her breasts, sucking and licking her nipples until she writhed beneath me, moaning. But who was ravishing whom? She had her hands under my shirt, in my pants, teasing and electrifying me.

  I floated happily, drowning under Star’s sweet weight. After the third time I lost count of our couplings. Somehow, at some time that evening we found our way back to my hotel room, ordered some food from room service, and, after eating, showered together. Then we spent what was left of the night reviewing all that we had learned about each other. Star and I slept happily in each other’s arms until late afternoon.

  So Star came to me. I don’t think I have ever been as happy.

  She asked me if I wanted to accompany her to various Mundo Melhor group rites and I agreed eagerly.

  Each meeting was a revelation of sorts. I began to see that Better World, in any guise, had a unique power to draw people together. But I quickly realized that while the techniques of Better World had been adapted to the desperate needs of the Cariocas, the Mundo Melhor meetings were more of an excuse for group dances than an attempt to heal each celebrant of their psychic wounds.

  At least, I thought so until I took part in one of their ceremonies.

  We gathered in a small house in Botafogo. It was a select group of celebrants, perhaps twenty-five in number. The evening began as it usually did, with the drumming of the pandeiros and the chanting of the celebrants. I stood in the back of the living room, watching the Brazilians sway to the beat, nodding my head, sweating, waiting to be caught up by the moment. />
  “Join hands,” Star said.

  I felt a strange electric jolt as my hands were seized—I could swear that every hair on my body stood straight up in shock. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

  Then the buzzing, burning pain and paralysis ended and I was in close, loving communion with Star. I could feel her essence, read her every thought. We were floating together, the two of us, in loving, intimate harmony. The purity of her intention, the dedication of her life to this cause was sweet and intense. She was beautiful within, consumed by the need to help her people. I wanted to tell her that I loved her and would always be by her side.

  But before I could do so, a thousand foreign thoughts crowded into my brain, humming and buzzing like a swarm of insects as they filled the space between Star and me, forcing us apart. My language implant struggled with the torrent of Portuguese and for a moment I felt my legs weaken as though I would sink to my knees under the burden of all these noisy minds.

  What was happening here? Why had my telepathic barriers been breached? Always, before this, I had been able to screen out unwanted mental contact. Why had my defenses and training suddenly failed?

  The celebrants’ thoughts reverberated inside my head. I was a human echo chamber, amplifying and distorting the mental signals of all the others in the room. It was dizzying, frightening, and exhilarating all at the same time.

  Any moment I expected the entire room to collapse around me, but instead of faltering, the celebration seemed to shift into a higher gear, the dancers moving faster, chanting louder. But I was weakening, growing faint, feeling myself being led around the circle, leaning on people next to me for support. My awareness spiraled inward, inward, and I stumbled through a dark, humid place in which jungle birds chattered, men shouted, and women shrieked. Somewhere in the distance a soprano practiced scales as her accompanist attacked a mechpiano keyboard.

  Something with wings, unseen, brushed the top of my head. I ducked, stared, but saw nothing. Behind me, the growling, screeching chorus continued, growing louder with each moment. And a deep, familiar male voice was patiently, hypnotically droning a single thought over and over in Portuguese.

  Meu nome e Juliano, Meu nome e Juliano, Meu nome—

  The thing with wings swooped down again and knocked me spinning, end over end, and then I knew nothing, nothing at all.

  When I came to, I was lying on my back on an old-fashioned, lumpy mattress in a dark room. I could hear people talking outside the door in a low undifferentiated hum, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying.

  The door opened and Star came in carrying a lantern. Her eyes were glistening and she looked rapturously happy.

  “What did you do, querido?” she said. “How did you do it?”

  “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

  She sat down next to me and took my hands in hers. “Oh, this was wonderful, the best time of all. A breakthrough. Everybody in the circle felt it, so connected, so enlightened. You are one of the gifted, like your brother. You’ve brought us his light.”

  “No, Star, it’s not that way, not that way at all.” I tried to explain, to tell her that somehow, through some sort of fluke, I had temporarily become a kind of telepathic conduit. There was nothing mystical about it. I was not a seer nor a holy man. But she would have none of it.

  “Your coming here is a sign, a gift. Oh, Julian, I’m so happy!” She threw her arms around me, kissing me passionately. And in between each kiss she told me, first in Portuguese and then, again, in English, how much good we would do together.

  With Star’s help I got to my feet and slowly made my way into the next room. A hush fell over the group as I entered, and then a huge cheer went up: “Quibungo!” The pandeiros began their drumming. People were hugging me, kissing me, draping flowers over my arms and shoulders. The celebration had been a sign, a signal from Rick that through me he was listening to them.

  I resigned from the U.N. committee the next day.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Paula said. “You’re overreacting.”

  Margot Fremont-Chai leaned toward me. “Don’t you see what a valuable observer you would make? You have the access to these rituals that is denied the rest of us. It’s crucial that you remain.”

  “Wouldn’t you say I’m a compromised witness?” I said. “To put it mildly?”

  Yuri Kryuchkov let out a huge, bearlike roar that was, apparently, laughter. “But you have been compromised from the beginning, Dr. Akimura. First by your media connections and again by your knowledge of Better World. Now you can tell us about the transformation of this cult from the inside out. You must stay.”

  Only Katarina Otulji seemed to see my point. “He’s right,” she said sadly. “If he remains on the committee, he will contaminate our observations.” She shook her head. “And if he continues to work with the cult on his own, he will contaminate its development here. Oh, this is terrible. Just terrible.”

  Well, that set me back a bit. I hadn’t stopped to consider how I might alter the evolution of Mundo Melhor if I stayed here. But how could I leave? The people seemed to want my help. And I was in love with Star.

  Suddenly I felt as though my life were some eerie parallel to my brother’s. It was easy now to see how he had been pulled into Better World, and why he had stayed. The expressions of the celebrants after each ritual was enough to bring me back again and again. How much more potent, more basic an experience it must have been for poor, lonely, desperate Rick. I empathized with him even as I celebrated his righteousness.

  In that moment I knew that I could no longer serve as a critic of Better World. Nor would I spy upon its development in other countries. I wanted to leave my brother in peace. And to give him my blessing as well. After all, he was helping people. If what I had accomplished here was even a microscopic fraction of what he was doing with his extensive powers, then there was nothing wrong with Better World. Nothing at all.

  Despite the protests of the others, I was adamant. I wished them good luck, got up, and left the room.

  “Julian, wait.” It was Paula, pursuing me halfway down the hall. “Please, listen to me,” she said. “We’re leaving for the States next Friday. It’s almost Christmas. Are you certain you want to quit now? What will you do?”

  “Stay here.”

  “What about your job in Boston?”

  “I’m already on leave. I’ll just extend it.”

  She looked at me, a mixture of exasperation and concern playing over her face. “Julian, I hope you know what you’re doing. Once we leave, you’ll no longer have the protection of diplomatic immunity. The Brazilian government isn’t crazy about Better World, to put it mildly—they see it as a threat to governmental authority. They’re one step away from cracking down on the entire movement. The last thing they want is someone like you—a foreigner—kicking up even more excitement at your girlfriend’s little gatherings.”

  I kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t worry about me, Paula. I do know what I’m doing. Perhaps for the first time in a long, long while.”

  The gods were on display at the Umbanda temple in Lagoas, and the celebrants were stamping their feet, swirling to the drumbeats, flirting, singing, and smoking when the police arrived.

  “No permit,” said the balding sergeant in his gray uniform. “No permit.”

  The drums kept beating. The initiates kept singing. No one seemed to have heard. Nobody was listening.

  “No permit.”

  Voices got louder and dancers moved faster but I was getting worried. These policemen wore thick black clubs that swung from their leather belts as they walked. And each man held a blunt-nosed laser rifle.

  Star smiled ever more brightly, as though special guests had just arrived. Hips swinging, she sashayed up to the headman and draped a white scarf around his neck. Then she casually lit a cigar and handed it to him. “Welcome to Mundo Melhor,” she said. “Of course we have a permit for this gathering.” She held up a holocard, flashing
it until it sparkled in the lamplight. Then she held out her arms to the officers. “Come,” she said. “Come and join the dance.”

  The drummers switched into high gear, pounding out a raucous, infectious samba beat.

  The officers stared at one another as though looking for someone who knew what to do. Then the youngest officer put down his gun and picked up a pair of maracas. Before I knew what was happening, the policemen had all become part of the celebration. The sergeant was in the thick of the crowd, feet flashing as he made one complicated turn after another, hips shaking all the while. The ceremony went on until dawn, and the police were among the last guests to leave.

  When we were alone, I turned to Star in respect and some confusion. “Why weren’t you afraid of the police?” I asked.

  “Afraid?” Her eyes sparkled. “Why be afraid? Don’t you see that people are all the same, querido? They just want to be able to enjoy their lives, to have enough to eat, to make love, to laugh, to dance, to have some hope.” She kissed me gently. “It’s not really very complicated, Julian. You’re a healer. I thought you already knew this.”

  “But they came here to cause a disruption. You know that the government doesn’t like Mundo Melhor.”

  “Because it fears our power.”

  “For whatever reason. You saw the weapons those men brought. They could have become violent.”

  “Perhaps in your country they would have behaved so. But here we understand things a bit differently. Those policemen were sent to cause trouble, yes, but they didn’t really want to do it. The police are always among the first to join the early samba parades on Avenida Atlantico—they love to dance and party. I knew that. Everybody in Rio knows it. All I had to do was help them to become human beings again, to forget their badges and guns.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “By showing them a small piece of paper—their precious permit—I removed the burden of their official roles. They were free to stop being policemen and to become people.” Her smile was beatific. “Not so different from what we do with Mundo Melhor. We’re just helping people to feel better.”