"She stands before you now, Lord, naked once again. For in your fire she will be born again.” Washington clamped a hand around Leslie's arm and pushed her toward the pool. Leslie stumbled once, bent forward to slip off her shoes, then stepped over the pool's edge. Time was caught in the hot blister of this moment that would not end. Leslie looked up and was flash blinded by the lights. Then she felt Washington nudge her shoulder and her head went under the spit of the Minute Men. She felt her skin go tight across her back and shoulders, and her nipples harden under the water. She gasped, inhaling the rain, then coughed.
"By the powers vested in me as the Holy Lord made Flesh in this Chosen Country of Chosen People,” Washington said. “I baptize this woman, Saint Leslie of our Homeland's Security. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit."
The roar of the crowd avalanched across the stage again as if it had never stopped. Leslie couldn't separate it from the ringing in her ears. Father Washington was holding her arm, pulling her out of the pool. She looked at him, vision going amber and grainy. You're going to pass out. Please don't pass out. She swayed as she stepped onto the stage and leaned heavily against the President. He was glaring at her, pushing her away slightly to reveal her wet imprint on his lapel. One of the saints had stepped forward, and pulled Leslie's robe over her head.
"It's all right, honey,” she whispered. It was Bree. Gratefully, Leslie clutched at the woman's forearm. Bree scooped up Leslie's shoes, and they returned to the line of saints. They stood there as Father Washington, glancing darkly at Leslie, returned to the elevator behind them and rode upward. Then they filed backstage as the band began to play.
Leslie found a bench in the darkness beyond the stage and sat down. Bree was with her still. “Welcome to the congregation,” she said, then patted her cheek. Leslie smiled.
"Look. If you need anything,” Bree said. “I'll be around.” Then she disappeared into the hall to the dressing rooms with the others. Leslie just waited in the darkness while the crew moved around her. Eventually the stage, the dressing rooms, and the cathedral beyond grew quiet. Tom appeared before her then, and took her to get her things in her dressing room. Security had faked out the paparazzi by sending an actress dressed as Leslie off in a limousine from the front of the building. They left through a back door, and then walked without pomp to the subway two blocks away.
* * * *
It wasn't until they were sitting on the subway home Leslie noticed how quiet Tom was. She looked at him in the pulsing dim light, sitting beside her on a cracked, greasy vinyl bench seat, his paw gripping the vertical bar by the door. He stared straight ahead, his face flushed, and occasionally she saw his head shake almost imperceptibly. Leslie felt the inner arm of her head mem flex as if she'd slept on it and only now was aware of its leaden weight, its sharp needles. The word ‘grim’ appeared in her mind. That was how Tom looked—grim. She glanced around the subway car as if to find the reason for his withdrawal. There were only the usual winos and tired-looking nightshift workers, a few young men on the town, one of them grinning at an argument between his friends.
Leslie touched Tom's shoulder. “What is it?"
The line of his mouth went taut. “Look, hero, there's a lot you don't understand, and I just don't have the colossal energy it would take to bring you up to speed with the rest of known civilization."
Leslie looked away, anger building in her chest. She closed Tom out of her vision and her thoughts simultaneously. She searched her memory of the ritual baptism for something to feel good about. Her submersion under Washington's hand should have been a triumphant moment. But she couldn't forget the feeling of being completely exposed. And then there was the look on Washington's face.
Why did he make me so uncomfortable?
Her anger gave way to disappointment. Leslie thought of the pilgrimage earlier that day, the women who recognized her, the blessing, the supplicant teenagers. What had she thought she could gain by attending the ceremony? Her disappointment expanded inside her.
Now that she almost expected people to gape at her, she was ignored by everyone on the car. The ride home became lonely and strange; and the train hummed louder than usual, as if it were burrowing her deeply into the world.
Part II:
Fetus
"No, I don't know that atheists should be considered as citizens, nor should they be considered as patriots. This is one nation under God."
—George H W Bush (as reported by Robert I. Sherman from a 1987 news conference)
"Propaganda is to a democracy what the bludgeon is to a totalitarian state."
—Noam Chomsky, Media Control
6
"Calvin! Get out here!"
Roger Calvin kicked open his office door and almost ran into his boss, who stood there in his respectable red, white and blue pin-striped suit, his respectable white buckled shoes, ears plugged with a wireless headset, as his thin lips cracked open in a grin that showed absolutely no respect for him. Roger had just finished his fourth coffee of the morning. He was wired, and it was all he could do to conceal the animosity boiling inside him for this man.
An older, refined-looking gentleman waited beside Roger's boss, staring at Roger through fashionable and surely unnecessary spectacles. All around them the station room was a frenetic swirl of activity. Mechanical eyes not yet deployed were getting orders and preparing to leave. Newscasters hollered at their crews, monitor walls blared bright images of Father Washington, police squads in action, a hurricane, Security crackdowns around the country, sensual ads for breakfast cereals and lift cars for the very wealthy. Image processors receiving data from mechanical eyes clicked and hummed. The chaos matched Roger's caffeine energy, the distracted rush of resentments and bitterness comprising his usual thoughts. The only thing that didn't fit the room was this quiet, white-haired man with fake spectacles, who stood with calm, self-assured ease.
"Yes, Mr. Wright,” Roger said.
"Calvin. This is your assignment for the day. This is—"
"Yes. Dr. Bankley.” He turned to the old man and extended his hand. “Of course I know who you are. Only the greatest Policy Etymologist of our time.” The palm that gripped Roger's was dry and thin in his own thin hand. “I'm honored."
Dr. Bankley smiled. “Of course you are."
Roger bit his lip.
Wright turned to the doctor and said, “Calvin is our literary translator here at the station. I'll leave you to him, all right? If you need anything, just call me.” Then he touched the plug in his left ear and tilted his head. “What?” He spoke into his lapel. “What do you mean his eye fell out? Stick it back in and duct tape it for all I care. Just get him to the fucking scene.” Straightening, he grasped Roger's shoulder and moved his lips without speaking: Don't fuck this up, Calvin. Then he strode away.
Thanks for the vote of confidence.
Roger motioned to Dr. Bankley. “Come into my office."
It was no more than a storage closet with a desk and two torn old chairs. Broken mechanical eye units and other dusty pieces of equipment were strewn on shelves and in corners of the windowless room. One of the ceiling lights fizzled and popped off as they entered. Roger watched Dr. Bankley look around with obvious amused distaste. He offered him a chair, then squeezed behind his desk and computer.
Roger hated his job. As far as he was concerned, reading was easy to the point of boredom—there was no reason everyone shouldn't have the ability. But it hadn't been that way for a very long time. Literacy had become a highly specialized skill, and most people just didn't need it in a world of vision walls and talking computers, picture menus and automated controls. Still, some businesses had occasional call for someone who could translate a written text or instructions.
Instead of making the literacy translator a prestigious, sought-after vocation, this bred attitudes of snobbery in the non-literate majority. The LT's position grew increasingly obsolete. Reading was for stupid people, people who had to read words to come up
with something to say, people who didn't fit in a visual-oriented world. Reading was a crutch. Reading was old-fashioned. Readers weren't do-ers. Roger's work kept him at poverty level, and he burned at being treated like a third rate citizen. But he was a good little soldier and always kept his mouth shut. As sick as it made him inside, what was he to do? Showing a bit of pride could get him fired. And there was no way he was going to move back to a scrap town and fall below the fortunate poverty in which he now lived.
Dr. Bankley cleared his throat. “I have here a transcript of a piece I once did on the history of policy phrasings on abortion. Don't even ask why it wasn't computer-translated.” He raised an arm and gestured dismissively over his head. Then he clicked open his briefcase and pulled out a writing pad full of hand-written text.
Hand written!
Roger took the pad handed to him and looked carefully at the doctor. Bankley, unblinking, just smiled back at him. “It's a long story,” he said. “What I want to do is go over it with you, and revise it here, off the cuff, so to speak, with you taking notes and reading back to me. Then when I go live on the air, you can read it and prompt me through my ear plug. Understand?"
"Yes sir.” Roger brushed kinky black hair from his eyes.
They worked for almost an hour before Roger noticed something strange about Bankley. When they had started, the doctor would close his eyes and listen intently to every word Roger read back to him. But now he had pulled his chair forward until he leaned over the front of Roger's desk. And when he paused to listen to Roger read a paragraph, it seemed as if he were stealing glimpses of the note pad. Is he one of those? Roger started purposefully stumbling on his words as he read to slow the process. He tilted the pad slightly toward the doctor. Bankley responded by looking at the notepad more frequently, and Roger caught the man's eyes tracking the written words. He was certain.
I'll be liberated in a desert storm! This mother fucker can read! He can fucking read!
Roger wanted to throw the pad down and put an end to the charade, but he swallowed his anger. He would only get himself fired by accusing Dr. Bankley of literacy. This was a wealthy, well-respected man, who worked on retainer for the government. Roger was nothing. An LT who barely got by. A misfit.
But Bankley was one of those! One of those men who pretended to be non-literate because reading was below their station. Who shared the skill secretly, but suffered none of the stigma. Someone who treated Roger with disdain and scorn.
Roger steadied himself, concentrated on Bankley's voice and his own transcription. He seethed the rest of the day, silently cursing Dr. Bankley, his boss, the vision station. And himself, too, for being such a coward. He managed to keep his mouth shut. The way he always did.
* * * *
Saint Leslie's voice faded from the speakers in Roger's vision wall and he threw his remote onto the rocking chair by the coffee table. Ads from the corner of the wall flashed in his peripheral vision, whispering softly about impotence medication, as he paced the room. He cursed, wishing he could afford to turn the commercials off. That wasn't going to happen. He wouldn't be able to afford it any time soon. He shook the chaos of black hair out of his eyes.
This can't be happening to me. I've been careful.
He unclenched his fists, then his teeth, and forced himself to sit in the rocking chair. He forced himself to think.
What kind of game was this woman playing? Roger shook with fear. And under this fear a rising bubble of hysteria made him want to laugh. He gasped against it to keep it down. It didn't make any sense. The woman, who was to be a saint for killing his brother, called him out of nowhere. He wished he'd been able to see her face. Her voice seemed strange. Roger thought about the subtleties of her tone. There had been uncertainty. A lot of nervousness. She definitely didn't seem to be acting with any official authority. Was it true she acted on her own?
He raised a hand in front of him and tried to steady his shaking. He studied the rope strands of vein beneath his pale skin, tangling around his bony knuckles.
Take a deep breath. You haven't done anything.
What did Homeland Security have to gain by investigating him? On the other hand, his brother had tried to assassinate Washington. So maybe it was logical to watch him. Watch him, sure. But this? Whatever this was?
He knew that his older brother had been making his way up the ranks in the Sons of Man, but he never knew what exactly he was up to, and that was the way Roger wanted it. Of course he knew the Sons of Man had pulled strings for him as Jeffrey grew in importance—that was something he accepted without scrutiny. That's how he got the job at the vision station, and was able to move out of the scrap town down on the Northwest Side. Even though he hated his life, he was grateful he could afford to live at least in a poverty line district now. He was also grateful to be left out of the Sons of Man politics and schemes. And for the fact he always seemed to be ignored during police sweeps in his neighborhood.
All right. He had agreed to meet with this frightened fledgling saint. It seemed like the only thing he could do. If her business was official, then Security was already watching closely, and there would be no point in trying to run. But what if she indeed was acting on her own? Roger had no way of knowing what resources were available to her. Best not to run anyway. Best not to look guilty of anything. He forced himself to breathe slowly.
He had just gotten in from work when the calls began. He was frustrated at losing his composure when they talked, but forced that out of his mind. It wasn't the time to beat himself up, even he could see that.
Jeffrey had made Roger memorize a calling number years ago, when he officially joined the Sons of Man. Roger idolized his brother back then. He was everything Roger wanted to be. He was muscular and good looking, charming, and never seemed afraid to speak his mind. Roger reveled in his brother's stories about narrowly escaping the police, hiding out in the scrap towns with dissenters. When he decided to join the Sons of Man it had been no surprise to Roger.
"If you ever get into trouble you can't get yourself out of,” he had said, “you use this number.” Roger wondered if it was time to make the call. But he wasn't ready to accept this was really happening. He wanted to escape all of it for a moment. It occurred to him he wanted to see June.
His shoulders dropped at the thought of her.
He'd been avoiding her for the last three months. Yet, he trusted her more than just about anyone.
It must mean something that I'd think of running to her first.
Roger smiled, and then laughed outright at himself. He'd known June for six or seven years, had spurned her more than been with her all that time, and she was still the first person he ran to when he found himself in trouble. He got involved with her when he still lived in one of the scrap towns on the northern side of the city. She'd only been fourteen then, and homeless. Roger had guessed her age at a good sixteen. It took six months to realize his mistake. June had been such an intriguing mixture of naiveté and street tough then, childish energy and sexual electricity, dumb ignorance and matured wisdom. Inevitably, they broke up. Many times. But always, no matter whom he saw, or what changed in his life, Roger found himself drawn back to June. Taking advantage of her willingness to give him another chance.
It amazed him how easily she always accepted him back. He imagined her sitting in the filth of her scrap town, waiting for him to emancipate her, and was filled with a hot, private shame. But he knew they could never be a couple. The sex was good, and he really did care about her. But when they were together, it wasn't long before Roger grew bored by her disinterest in intellectual pursuits, her ignorance, her provincial poverty. When Roger thought of June, usually two strong images filled his mind. One was her soft hazel eyes framed by softer black hair, looking at him with a caring that transcended their many separations. In the other image, she rested on knees and elbows, her cotton panties around her slender ankles, her heavy breasts moving the dirt on the plywood floor.
The second image cam
e to him now. He forced it out of his mind, but at the same time knew he'd go to see her. He told himself his decision wasn't based on desire, or at least mainly not on desire. Who else could he talk to about Saint Leslie? A friend from work? A passing girlfriend? He didn't trust anyone else.
Even while part of you keeps looking for an excuse to end it forever, he thought, part of you is looking for another excuse to see her. He reached for his remote once again, about to call her, when it occurred to him the call might not be a good idea. Was his line tapped? Roger didn't know how these security games were played. It wasn't fair to bring June into this so casually. The subway to East and First Scrap Town seemed a better idea. Of course, if his apartment was being watched, that might not help either. He would have to make an effort to evade anyone who might be following him.
Roger went into the bathroom, splashed his face with water, and ran his fingers through knotted hair. Then he left the apartment, deciding on a roundabout route to the subway. He left the building from the rear exit and walked through a series of alleys, making abrupt turns and even backtracking a couple of times. He really didn't know what the Red Hell he was doing.
You are pathetic. Ridiculous.
* * * *
The subway ride took thirty minutes, and Roger spent the time looking over his shoulder for glowing mechanical eyes, then disparaging himself for his paranoia. What would the likelihood be, he pondered, that Security would identify him through a random monitoring check on a passing mechanical eye? He clenched his teeth against his fear, then found himself looking around at the other passengers anyway, in the dim flickering light.
As much as he hated to think about it, the scrap town June lived in was his old neighborhood. At the foot of the dark steps from the subway station, he stepped over the stiff carcass of a drunk and ascended into light. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dusty afternoon sun, the scrap town, built up in alleys and condemned lots, appeared through gray spots across the street. He hated this place. Its entrance was a haphazard quilt of salvaged plywood, tires, doors, dead vehicles, and tin roofing spanning the mouth of an alley. The web of junk stood three stories high. From the front it looked pathetic and small, but Roger knew the entrance hid a labyrinth of abandoned cars, apartments and makeshift cubbies, with a series of public shower houses along its eastern side. There was no ground traffic as he jogged across the street, only the occasional lift car on its way to some place where scrap towns were never mentioned.
The Rise and Falling Out of Saint Leslie of Security Page 7