Bleedover

by Curtis Hox

  “You loved her, didn’t you?”

  “I’ve never stopped.”

  “What would she say about Towns and his mother’s sickness?” Eliot asked.

  “She’d tell me to be careful.”

  * * *

  Margery had been a sophomore at Columbia when she’d cornered Hattie in their dorm room. Hattie had just gotten back from a shower, and was drying her hair with a towel in front of the lone mirror in the room.

  “It’s all real, Hattie. All the stories. Every one, real.”

  Margery lay sprawled on a loveseat up against the wall opposite their bunk bed. She looked as if she hadn’t slept last night, with deep pools for eyes, and frantic lines at the corners of her mouth. Hattie wanted to go to bed early because she’d been working on a paper all day that had given her a headache. She saw a pile of library books littering the floor.

  “You just got back?” Hattie asked.

  Margery huffed. “Been wandering in the stacks.”

  “You’re going to flunk out.”

  Margery’s lack of interest in the historiography of her subject worried Hattie. She thought her friend might fail to get into grad school. Margery, though, could tell you chapter by chapter what happened in the Bible, or the Bhagavad-Gita, or the Nibelungenlied. But she had little interest in what anyone else had to say about those texts.

  “You didn’t come home last night. You hid out after closing again. Didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, I have a great spot,” Margery said and tried to smile.

  “You look like you haven’t slept.”

  Margery stretched in the loveseat, arms and legs going rigid. “I said, been wandering, and reading.”

  Hattie struggled with the sight of her friend, unaware this was the beginning of the end for her. In five years Margery would be dead, overwhelmed by what she’d experienced. Her body would be too weak for the world her mind comprehended.

  “I see something I can’t articulate,” Margery said, “but I know to be true. They’re speaking to us.”

  Hattie prudently shut the door to their dorm room and knelt in front of her friend.

  Before Hattie could pose a challenge, Margery put a finger to Hattie’s lips. “I actually fell asleep in the library last night. I never sleep there; you know that. I had a dream. It’s all real: all the stories, the characters. They all exist in their own places and they’re bledover, here.”

  “Bledover?”

  “Yes, bleedover, like an image blurring into the next.”

  “Here?” she asked, looking around the room.

  Margery waved her arms about as if she were swatting flies. “Here, the world, reality. Now.”

  “What?”

  “Every single story ever told is real, Hattie, not just canonical classics, or even those that get published, or even those that manage to bother us in the middle of the day on television. All of these stories are unfolding and continue to unfold somewhere in reality.”

  “Where?”

  “I told you. Everywhere.” Margery slapped her hands on her knees and jumped to her feet. “Are you listening to me? The stories are leaking into our mundane world, trying to communicate with us beyond mere words, images, and sounds.”

  * * *

  Eliot had been listening silently, now knee-to-knee with her.

  “This was Margery’s belief,” Hattie said, “even up to the minute of her death. The scary part is that Corbin and Dreya Lyell are now saying the same thing. Before Margery died on a horrible day in which her heart simply stopped, we sat with her in the hospital. She told me, Dreya, and Corbin to take locks of her hair—that these would prove to us her ideas were true. She’d written about having ‘magical hair’. Yeah, that’s what she called it. She’d found an interpolation in her manuscript that made it work. I saw the text. She never told me how, though.”

  “We stood at her bedside and accepted the scissors and snipped locks. Margery’s hair had blossomed as her body thinned. I guessed a few years later that my insights about the N.P.B. weren’t due to my brilliance, no matter what you say. The lock provides insight, Eliot. I pieced this together while writing my novel, which I have never tried to publish, and which I never plan to publish.”

  “And Corbin?”

  “He’s always been a fantasy freak. No wonder it triggered his worldview on a grander scale at Hexcom. Dreya? She’s always worked in social circles, drawing people to her, like flecks of iron to a magnet. And all these years, I’ve kept mine in my office here at Riodola, where it worked its magic, guiding me on my quest to understand the N.P.B.”

  “You can’t tell anyone this, ever.”

  “You’ll see, Eliot. Before this is over, you’ll see. I just need one more interpolation.”

  * * *

  Hattie said goodnight to Eliot, then walked straight to her disorganized basement office. She stood amid mountains of boxes before her empty bookcase.

  She inched it aside, enough to see the pristine doorframe, its paint smooth to the touch, and smelling brand new. A few more inches, then a few more, and she stood before the entire door. The handle was cool to the touch, and heavy. She ran her fingernails along one panel.

  Everyone in her Society would walk through it. Then, no doubts could exist.

  Hattie only needed one last interpolation to complete the Crossover Framework. A rush of doubt surged, and she grabbed the handle as if the door might fly away.

  Too little time!

  Would the Lyells relent once they saw the F.G.O.? Or would they move against her again?

  She just needed to survive the demonstration. Now, she feared she had made her announcement too quickly before learning where this portal led.

  She leaned on the handle, then paused.

  No. Follow your own instructions: obedience.

  Hattie returned the bookcase.

  * * *

  On the morning of the demonstration, a crowd of eager attendees congregated outside the library door on the wide steps. By 9 a.m. the normally sedate Monday morning had produced a boisterous mix of academics with notepads and journalists with cameras and microphones.

  Hattie surveyed the chairs set before the stage and felt relief her security team was there. Brad Dellis, Elvin Morales, and Christine Dipriano all appeared made from the same mold: trim, hard edges, business-like reticence, disarming politeness.

  Brad spoke with a Southern patois that she couldn’t locate as Georgian or Texan or anywhere in particular. He’d sent Chris outside to mingle. Elv was doing a final check of the perimeter as Brad waited for an explanation of what was going on.

  “Were you in the military?” Alice asked.

  “Recon Marine. Reserves now.”

  She flitted about him as if he were an action hero. “I have a brother in the Navy.”

  “I was captain in the U.S. Marine Force Reconnaissance Company before my honorable discharge.”

  Hattie knew Brad was wondering about the exact nature of the assignment. “Alice, leave him alone.”

  “Sure.” She pouted but walked off to find something to do.

  Hattie grabbed him by the arm. “Come, Brad, let me show you the stage.”

  She knew Brad’s story and thought he was being humble. He’d told her once that he’d killed a handful of men on a handful of occasions, more than one up close and personal enough that he could still see their faces. He’d told her that in the Middle East he’d once ridden shotgun and stood at the center of fire that never hit him. He’d watched men go down around him. The calm came later, when he began to feel that if he could make it through that, he could make it through anything stateside.

  Elv and Chris had both been team leaders as well, Elv as a Marine corpsman (“one of the hardest jobs out there, especially in the thick of it”) and Chris as a Navy rescue diver.

  “Anything unusual to expect?” he asked.

  “A little different from the other times I’ve used you,” Hattie said.

  “This is where you’ll be?”


  She stood with him before the platform in the middle of the long, tall space.

  “We’ll be up there.”

  “Mr. Dellis,” Eliot said, “make sure no one attempts to get on the stage.”

  Brad was a full head and shoulders taller than Eliot and was packed full of lean muscle and hard bone compared to the narrow-shoulder and stooped-neck scientist. Brad wore a nondescript black suit with a white shirt and black tie. No sunglasses today, although he had a pair in his jacket pocket. He wore an earpiece. He looked like a former athlete who kept himself in good shape and could whip a younger man with ease. And here was Eliot giving him orders.

  “Eliot,” Hattie said, “I think he knows what to do.”

  “Who would want to do that, sir?” Brad asked.

  “She’s had over twenty death threats in the last decade,” Eliot said. “We both personally know Corbin and Dreya Lyell. Are you familiar with them?”

  “The ones in the photos you gave me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not at all.”

  Hattie gently placed her hand on his forearm. “Good for you. All we need is to make sure no disruptions happen. I’ll offer a few comments that’ll last a minute or so, then we’ll begin. The demonstration should only take a few minutes. We may repeat it once or twice.”

  “What sort of demonstration?”

  She allowed herself the luxury of a wink. “History, my dear sir. History.”

  “I need to know.”

  “A graduate candidate,” Eliot said, “is going to vocalize for a few seconds a particular set of sounds in a particular order for a particular reason. An apple will appear out of thin air.” Brad continued to wait. “That’s it, Mr. Dellis. It’s not an illusion. No magic trick.”

  “Not an illusion, right,” Brad said. “Can’t wait.”

  “Well,” Hattie said, “it’s time then.”

  Brad moved off, smiling, as he spoke into his communication device.

  His team opened the doors and allowed a sea of individuals to flood inside.

  * * *

  On stage, Towns felt a rumbling in his gut triggered by the noisy crowd jockeying for seats. A numbing anxiety leadened his feet and riveted him to the floor.

  He had been thinking of his mom, which made him less nervous about performing, but did nothing to help him stop thinking about the bathroom. Dr. Sterling had said three times for three apples, tops. No sweat, as long as people didn’t start hissing when they heard the growls.

  He had rehearsed once while the security team was outside. He’d succeeded on the first try, good enough to spot where the apple would arrive (to the right of the platform). They’d laid a table on its side to mark the spot.

  Alice busied herself as an usher, helping people to their choice seats in the front. Masumi sat at the table with the workstation, a small getup of a laptop, mixing board, and a few other items in a small rack. She had been kind to him today—everyone had been because of his mother. But she still wouldn’t acknowledge what happened in her apartment, or if she were interested in repeating it. Not that he was thinking much about sex.

  He’d told her he’d called the hospital this morning. No news. Stable, but still fully comatose.

  Towns saw Masumi’s boss, Dr. Stephan Ross, and his retinue take seats in the front. Dr. Sterling played the kind host, chatting with them, even smiling as Dr. Ross turned away.

  To Towns they looked like vultures waiting for him to drop dead so that they could pounce and rip into him. He also noticed what looked like a few august faculty members from competing universities wearing name tags.

  Journalists had also arrived in droves and were already setting up in the back.

  “I have to go to the bathroom again,” Towns said.

  * * *

  As Towns disappeared, the Lyells arrived with two bodyguards.

  Behind them Hexcom employee Max Siegen walked in. He was a chubby man wearing a Mets baseball cap and a horribly tacky Tommy Hilfiger shirt splattered with multi-colored stripes of various widths. He had the puffy red cheeks of someone who enjoyed drinking, which he had been, last night in a sports bar in Hoboken.

  Siegen sat a few chairs down from Bernard Corrigan in his overpriced suit.

  They had conflicted too many times in the past years, running operations that crisscrossed each other’s paths often. Siegen was good, most of the time—Corrigan better—and had been recruited and employed by Hexcom because he knew intelligence and counterintelligence.

  Having worked in counterterrorism for the New Jersey State Detectives meant Siegen had experience dealing with federal agencies trying to infiltrate a number of sensitive industries. He’d shown an ability to go under cover, as well as to run agents. Hexcom paid well and provided him with interesting work.

  Corrigan was government, though.

  He gave Siegen a nod.

  Siegen turned away, refusing to acknowledge Corrigan’s chilly, “fuck you, you degenerate” grin.

  * * *

  On stage, Masumi paid little attention to the swirling activity of the crowd. She’d spotted her boss sitting in the front row like a lord. That was enough peeking for her. She didn’t care the dean was here, or the dignitaries he escorted. All of them would be affected negatively if Towns succeeded; if she helped him succeed.

  Towns returned. “There’s a lot of people here.”

  “Ya think?” she said.

  Alice approached the stage and gave Masumi a nod.

  Masumi flipped a switch on the mixing board, connecting the mic, and toggled the level just enough to give it juice. The PA system squawked, then a cycle of feedback echoed through the chamber.

  Dr. Sterling left the audience, climbed the few steps, and approached the mic.

  Towns sat behind Masumi, as if he were her assistant, also pretending to look at the readout. He wore a headset and listened to the combination, refreshing his memory.

  Ten seconds, he thought. That’s all.

  “Welcome,” Dr. Sterling said, tapping the mic. Masumi increased the volume. The room quieted. “Welcome, please sit.”

  The audio resounded through the PA system from speakers atop stands at the front corners of the platform. Stragglers hurried to their seats and hushed each other. Cameras uselessly flashed in the naturally well-lit space.

  “We’re ready to begin.”

  In the back, a row of professional news cameras on tripods swung toward the stage. Tendrils of connective wiring reached the back wall’s electrical outlets. A sat-truck waited outside the university, relaying wireless data.

  “I’m Professor Harriet Sterling, Chair of Riodola’s Cultural Studies Department. We welcome you to this historic event. Today, we’ll demonstrate an authentic instantiation. You’ll see a Full Generated Object based on my R.D.A. interpolation.” A murmur rippled through the crowd, a mixture of excitement and skepticism. “The end result will be the creation of a Red Delicious apple.” The crowd responded with a few claps. “A graduate candidate, Mr. Ernest Packer, will incant a combination that triggers the instantiation. It’ll take roughly ten seconds, if he succeeds the first time. We’ve tested this and know where the instantiation will occur. I direct you to the table to your left.”

  Dr. Sterling pointed to the foldout table on its side on the floor. It formed a small barrier, as if readied for someone to kick a soccer ball against it. A piece of black cloth lay in front. Alice had cut it from an old fundraising T-shirt.

  People’s heads moved back and forth, as if they couldn’t decide which area to watch.

  Dr. Sterling turned around and offered Towns the mic.

  He stood, unraveled the headphones’ extension cord, and moved to center stage. He removed the stool; no need to sit if he’d only be there a few minutes.

  He grabbed the weighted mic stand and placed the wireless mic in its holder.

  Even before Dr. Sterling could step away, he began mumbling.

  The crowd reacted with the slamming shut of every mou
th. Masumi kept the volume low but loud enough that everyone could hear. Towns had agreed to this, but he couldn’t hear what they heard, his studio headphones containing their own world of sound.

  He shut his eyes. The last person he saw was Dr. Brandeis in the back of the chamber, giving him a thumbs-up.

  Towns knew he had it as the first phonemes left his lips.

  Just the growls now. Just the growls.

  He let the consonants transition into the first explosion of sound. He opened his eyes and saw a sea of faces staring at him. The throaty, low-registered growls even caused a few individuals to jump backward in their seats; some almost tipped over into the rows behind. A few cameras shook because of unsteady hands.

  While Towns incanted, Hattie watched Stephan Ross’s face drain. She knew a deep-seated fear of the primordial welled in his Catholic heart, much as early inquisitors struggled witnessing the accused squirm under the supposed direct assault of the Devil.

  She switched to Corbin, who watched with lips pursed, obviously thinking that the Deep was registering here in the mundane world, while Dreya melted into her chair.

  Only a few individuals studied the table. They gasped as Towns finished. Two people stood and pointed at the instantiated apple.

  The uproar took several seconds to quell, but Hattie let it ripple for a few moments longer to echo in the chamber.

  She leaned into Towns’s mic. “Please watch closely,” she said to the audience. “We’ll repeat it.”

  All eyes and all cameras switched focus from the platform to the table lying on its side.

  Towns continued.

  When the second apple appeared next to the first, silence; then the universal sounds of disbelief, then the turn of the tide registering a few open acceptances.

  “Once more,” she asked, “for any doubters?”

  Again, he succeeded.

  By now, the crowd had retreated to nonplussed murmurs.

  Corbin and Dreya walked out like automatons.

  Hattie waited for the door to slam shut. “We’ll start the press conference momentarily.”

  Towns pulled her aside. “I’ll be at the hospital.”

  “I understand.”

  He looked like he might say something else. Instead, he turned and left.