Soul Source: Back and There Again

by Charles Vella

  "Veronica." Monica stopped and looked around. No one there. Thank God. She started back down the hall. Veronica. Team One. Veronica. Couldn't they've just been merciful and tied her down on top of an anthill to be eaten alive?

  "Monica." She flicked a screen onto her wrist at the buzzing in her ear. "Where are you?" she hissed back, her eyes darting around the empty halls.

  "Ladies room."

  "Which..."

  The door to her left slid open and Monica shook the screen off her wrist and shot a final glance down the hall before stepping through it. The door slid closed behind her. Red lights flashed in the ceiling.

  "How'd you know where I was?"

  "The restroom is being prepared for cleaning," a disembodied voice intoned. "Please exit in a timely and orderly manner."

  "In a timely and orderly manner," Sarah chanted in unison with it. "I think that's Pruitt's voice slowed down to make it more menacing."

  "Steam created during the restroom cleaning process can reach temperatures of one thousand degrees," the voice went on.

  "Although it isn't clear you can actually make Pruitt's voice more menacing."

  "Sarah." Monica yanked her by the arm. "We've got to get out of here. It's going to lock for cleaning. Damn." The door locked with a click. "Too late." She pulled out her arm and projected a screen.

  "Calm down Monica." Sarah laid a hand over the screen on Monica's wrist. "When have you ever seen a ladies room closed for cleaning in the middle of the day?"

  Monica looked back and forth between the door and the smug look on Sarah's face. She dropped her arm. "You?"

  "I did it once just as Veronica got settled on the seat. I was going to put the video on the web site but didn't want to hurt Ted's feelings."

  Monica glanced up at the tiny nozzles spread around the room. "You're sure? I don't want..."

  "For Chrissake Monica do you always have to go on and on about every little thing? Try to have some perspective."

  "Every little thing? Being boiled alive isn't..."

  "What'd they say?" Sarah cut her off and glared at her. Monica didn't have to ask who.

  "You're a logic risk. And I," Monica's voice caught. "Veronica..." but her voice gave out.

  Sarah stared at her as the expression on her face passed from angry to questioning and finally softened into sympathy.

  "Veronica? You don't mean they took you off Team One?"

  Monica nodded her head. Tears welled into her eyes.

  "They can't do that."

  "Well they did," Monica said, or at tried to say. But her voice squeaked out like the rusty hinge of a tiny box.

  "Oh Monica. I'm sorry," Sarah sighed, draping an arm around her. "This is my fault." She reached into dispenser, grabbed an air hankie and shoved it into Monica's hand. "I never thought they'd go after you too. After all what were you supposed to do?"

  "It was my report." Monica nodded her thanks and blew her nose.

  "Your report? What about your report?"

  "I rated it a category one intervention." She flipped the switch on the air hankie and blew her face dry.

  "A category one?" Sarah's mouth hung open. "I hit him in the balls with a baseball bat."

  "I saw."

  Sarah shook her head. "You know what your problem is Monica?"

  "My problem?" Monica felt the blood fill her face. "My problem is I tried to help you. You're welcome."

  "Your problem is you need to pick a side. You're not happy sitting on the fence. Not really."

  Monica felt a headache flash across her forehead. The fact that her teeth were locked like a vise didn't help. "I don't know what you're..."

  "I mean," Sarah cut her off. She paced back and forth, elbows clutched tightly at her side, one hand gesturing. "I hit the guy in the balls with a baseball bat and break up a crime. You should either think I should be fired or you should've picked up the bat and whacked one of his friends. Instead you lecture me and then write some mealy-mouthed excuse."

  "Mealy-mouthed...Dammit Sarah. This isn't a joke. This is your career. And mine."

  "I know it's not a joke Monica," she shot back. "And being in that room was no joke to Sharon."

  "They've dropped the charges," Monica said, feeling the anger drain out of her.

  "I know." Sarah shook her head and frowned. "Category one," she finally chuckled, shook her head, and even Monica managed a wan smile as she wiped her eyes and tried not to see herself as she stared in the mirror. She threw the air hankie at the trash can. She missed.

  "I'll talk to Ted," Sarah said. She picked the hankie up and jammed it into the can. "He won't let Pruitt get away with this."

  "Ted? Why would Ted do anything about it? They're putting Veronica in charge of Team One."

  "Veronica?" Sarah snorted. "You think Ted'll let that carbon Barbie doll run Team One?"

  "Why wouldn't he want his wife..."

  "Oh Monica," Sarah sighed in disgust. She raised her wrist and poked at the screen there. The flashing lights stopped and the voice that had been droning its dire warnings as background to their argument faded away. "Sometimes you really are just too naive."

  Monica opened her mouth but Sarah'd disappeared through the door before she could say anything. She grabbed another air hankie and blew her nose, washed her face, and stared into the mirror with water dripping into the sink.

  "Well," she told the mirror. "Maybe Ted will do something." But she could tell her reflection didn't believe it any more than she did.

  7

  Monica couldn't remember the walk back to her office from the ladies room. She spent one of the most unproductive days in her work life, clicking through screens and staring at memos she couldn't focus on. Skipped lunch. Wasn't hungry and couldn't face the cafeteria where the news would've spread like wildfire. And the worst thing was they were right. As much as she hated it Pruitt was right. Intervening in the past was dangerous. No one had any idea what it would lead to. But if they were right how could they be so wrong? How could you fault Sarah for not being willing to stand there and watch it happen? And if Sarah hadn't been there is that what Monica would've done? If going back in time meant standing around and watching young women be raped then they shouldn't send human beings to do it. They should send Pruitt. All the missions in the past had been big events. Riots. Police killings. Dangerous, violent events that'd been hard to watch but where you knew there wasn't anything you could do to stop it. This one'd been different and Monica supposed she and Sarah'd both learned something about themselves and each other.

  "Open."

  She reached into the drawer and found her ultrasound vibrator. She rubbed it along her forehead to get rid of the headache she felt coming on and tried to feel grateful for the lesson.

  "Waste of money," she muttered, dropping the vibrator back into the drawer. "Close." She projected a screen. Enough day'd finally crawled by for her to leave with some semblance of dignity. She got up and headed for the door.

  She saw Artie down the length of a long hall, but before she could duck into a doorway he threw her a furtive look and disappeared around a corner. What's going on around here today? Since when did Artie pass on the chance to ask the fish he'd just filleted to share its feelings with him? It was like a hyena passing a zebra carcass. 'Not today. I'm just not in the mood.' And it wasn't just that. It was hard to tell from that distance but the look on Artie's face could easily have been described as fear. She looked around the deserted halls. Where was everyone anyway?

  She should quit. The thought popped into her mind with no warning, but she knew it'd been lying there out of sight, waiting for the opportunity to rise up and challenge her. Quit? And do what? Something different. Somewhere different. Somewhere away from Pruitt. Away from the responsibility of screwing around with the past, with people's lives. Away from people who can't make commitments. Sure. Great. Quit. And do what?

  She rode the escalator's twirling path up to the atrium.
She stood in front of the building without knowing how she'd gotten there, squinting into the late afternoon sun pounding on her head. OK. What now? Go home? It was Thursday but somehow she didn't have the energy to deal with people.

  "Where are you?" buzzed in her ear. She projected a screen onto her wrist. "Got here early," Griff's face said from her wrist.

  "Not sure I have the energy today."

  "Oh come on and join the wake."

  She smiled in spite of herself. Why not? Go to happy hour. Drop the idea of quitting on Griff. See what he says.

  "Coming," she said and flipped the screen away. Going home and staring at the walls was probably the worst thing she could do. Her car pulled up and slowed to a stop in front of her.

  "About time."

  "Hello Monica. Battery power currently reads ninety-nine point nine eight percent," the voice said accusingly, but Monica decided to take the high road.

  "Hazel's."

  She thought for a second it was going to argue. What? Tell her she was drinking too much? Gaining weight? But with a small electronic sniff of disapproval it pulled out. She left the MITCo compound and rolled off campus. A few minutes later she pulled into the parking lot at Hazel's.

  "What was wrong with that space?"

  "I'm Sorry Monica. There wasn't adequate room to exit both doors without the danger of scratching another vehicle."

  "But I'm the only one in the...the doors slide...oh never mind."

  "I'm sorry Monica. I didn't catch that. Could you repeat it?"

  "Nothing," she sighed.

  It pulled into a space farther down the row of cars and parked.

  "We have arrived at our destination Monica."

  "Want to come in for a drink?" she mumbled.

  "I'm sorry Monica. I didn't catch that. Could you repeat it?"

  "Open."

  The door slid open and she was about to step out when she felt a rumble and turned. The low-pitched growl followed the car as it stopped in the entrance then paraded slowly through the lot. Verma had the speakers on his retro nineteen-sixties monstrosity at full blast. The rumble vibrators shook the thing as if its power came from some huge, gas-powered engine instead of the same electric motor that hummed silently under the hood of Monica's car. He did a slow loop around the lot. Fifty year-old techno rock blasted from his speakers and fought with the recorded sounds of an unmuffled internal combustion engine, a rolling earthquake with bad theme music. All he was missing was a fake tail pipe spewing black smoke.

  "Close. Stealth." Monica slid down into the seat even though she couldn't see him through two layers of heavy tint and knew he couldn't see her car on stealth. If he tried to park in her space his car would let him know there was someone there hiding from him, but his car stopped and pulled into the space she'd passed. He could fit into it. She waited until his sound effects stopped and he'd gotten out and walked inside. "Stealth off."

  "Open." Her door slid open and she got out. After the day she'd had the idea of walking in with him smirking and ogling was more than she could take.

  She pushed inside and had to wait a second to let her eyes adjust to the dim light. An old-fashioned neon sign over the door warned that anyone shooting a firearm would be asked to leave, the strongest message the law allowed. It hadn't happened here but it always made Monica shiver to go into a bar, which were about the only public places left. Especially with Lyle Larson still running around loose. It'd happened only a few miles away and sounded like a bad joke. A guy walks into a bar to shoot up everyone in the place. He pulls out a gun and when he'd finished there were more than twenty people dead. According to the ballistics results all of them, every one, was killed in the crossfire of other people defending themselves. Larson hadn't killed a single person. Hadn't even fired. Turned out he'd bought the gun on line from China and it'd jammed. He'd spent the entire scene in the doorway of the bar cursing at and finally banging the thing against the doorjamb trying to get it to fire. The police and prosecutors had scratched their heads and finally admitted there wasn't anything to charge him with since pulling a gun out in a crowded bar in and of itself wasn't illegal. Larson must've done a thousand interviews since, sitting in front of an American flag with what looked like a large coffee stain, swearing that he'd learned his lesson. Next time he'd buy American and not depend on some Chinese piece of shit. Monica'd memorized what he looked like and hoped he'd run for Congress and move to Washington.

  She stood in the doorway. During the school year at this hour Hazel's would be packed with students and professors trying to look like their friends instead of their parents, but during the summer it was deserted except for the MITCo crowd. Verma's face turned from the far end of the bar as she walked in and she nodded. He grinned back and raised his glass. Two of the booths lining the opposite wall were occupied by single men. She slid into the second.

  "You're starting early," she said over the strains of sixty year-old soft rock. "Don't they ever change the music in here? My mother used to play this back when people still had to download music onto computers."

  "I always start early on days with an a in them," Griff said. He turned to wave at the waitress but she'd seen Monica come in and was already pouring her a glass of wine from the tap. He looked around the room.

  Monica's eyes followed his. "Work was like a ghost town today. I thought everyone must be here."

  "Thanks Tammy."

  The waitress smiled at him as she picked up his glass and walked back to the bar with more sway in her hips than was absolutely necessary for forward motion.

  "Don't worry. She'll make it back without you watching her."

  "No harm reading the menu on a full stomach," Griff laughed, but his heart wasn't in it. After a few seconds his crooked smile weakened and disappeared.

  "What's with you? I'm the one who had the bad day."

  "That's what's with me." He straightened in the seat.

  "You heard then?"

  "Heard? No one's talking about anything else."

  "Wonderful."

  Griff nodded at the screen projected over the bar. "I thought this'd be the Cubs' year but they don't look so good."

  Monica turned to the screen. Shook her head. Turned back. "If you're trying to comfort me it isn't working yet."

  "Taking your mind off it. What do you think killed baseball anyway? Getting rid of the umpires or the fans? Or was it making the fastball an illegal pitch?"

  "I didn't know it was dead. Besides, you can't tell there aren't fans."

  "Drones," he snorted. "What terrorist would want to blow up a baseball game anyway? And you can tell if you watch more than one game a season. There are two hundred and thirty two games a year, six rounds of playoffs, the World Series and the International World Series and it's the same people projected every day. See that guy behind home plate? With the orange hair?" Monica turned her head toward the screen. "He's there every night. The audio even sounds fake. Sounds more like a monster truck rally than a park full of people."

  She turned her head back around. "They should get rid of the players too."

  "Exactl...Oh very funny." His voice trailed off as a shaft of bright light fell across his face and he glanced at the open door. Monica's eyes followed his.

  "What's she doing here? Coming to gloat no doubt," she answered her own question.

  Veronica passed by the booth and caught her eye before Monica could look away. A razor thin slit of smile flashed across her face. 'Hello. I'm Countess Dracula. Would you mind moving that wisp of hair off of your neck?' She posed in the light of the slowly closing door and scanned the room, then sauntered to an empty length of the bar next to Verma. She stopped and tossed her blond hair around with her back to Monica and Griff. Verma's eyes followed her, then glanced over at them when Veronica said something. They both laughed.

  Monica felt the blood rush to her face.

  "Bet I know what they're talking about," she muttered.

 
"Assholes," Griff said. "Don't let'em get to you."

  "Assholes," the voice above them repeated. They both looked up to the smiling face hovering above them. "Repeating your sentiment provides us a shared experience and promotes our relationship."

  "Kind of puts us on the same team."

  "Exactly Griff. An apt metaphor."

  "Thanks. Got it. How's life treating you Dutch?"

  Griff slid over, answering Monica's rolled eyes with a grin, and Dutch sat next to him. "Can't complain," he said. "Actually I could complain if there were something to complain about, or even if there weren't, strictly speaking..."

  "...strictly speaking," Griff agreed with a wink at Monica.

  "But that's an idiom denoting that events are proceeding," he hesitated and his eyes unfocused for an instant, then snapped back. "Uneventfully."

  Griff nodded. Lifted his glass. "Drink?"

  Dutch grinned and pointed a finger at Griff.

  "God he looks like Ted when he does that."

  "Do you think so?" Dutch trained his neutral gray mechanical eyes across the table. At least Monica thought they were mechanical. With Dutch you never knew. You couldn't exactly say what was unnatural about them, besides the fact that they switched color to match his mood. Dutch looking at you was something like finding yourself in the cross hairs of a bombsight. "I must say you don't look like Dr. Ted Monica. Are you alright Griff?" Dutch slapped Griff's back while he coughed and grinned across the table at Monica.

  "Fine Dutch," he said, mopping up beer with a napkin that was already wet. "I'm fine. I don't think she looks like Ted either."