The Presence

by Paul Black

  “Was this woman with him?” Marl’s image dissolved into Corazon’s. The clerk studied it intently.

  “I can’t say that I’ve seen her, but I usually work days.”

  Chaco called up the hotel’s floor plans. “The stairs are this way,” he said to Pavia while pointing at a door to the right of the main elevator banks. As they walked across the lobby, Chaco noticed the carpet looked like it had seen a hundred years of traffic.

  “The gov’ment pays for any damages, you know,” the clerk called out.

  “I know,” Chaco said over his shoulder. “Here’s the address for any inquiries you might have.” He accessed the NSA’s PR site and sent it to the hotel’s system.

  The clerk bent down to view his screen. “All right then,” he said, straightening. “You boys be safe.” He removed his glasses and let them dangle from a gold chain. “And try and keep it to a minimum, will you please?”

  “Minimum, my ass,” Pavia said under his breath. He yanked open the exit door, and they began climbing.

  The stairwell was cool and emitted a fetid odor, which by the second floor was doing a serious number on Chaco’s stomach. His fingers grazed something sticky under the handrail. “Shit, what’s that smell?” he asked while he wiped his palm down the side of his pants.

  “I’ll bet you a dinner at Sardi’s it’s the backside of the all-night buffet.” Pavia was now taking two stairs at a time and appeared not the worse for it.

  The fire door to the third floor was an old push-latch with the original retrofitted firebox bolted to its frame. The red alarm armature was bent slightly askew to the box like it had been hastily kicked in the past.

  “I wonder if it will go off?” Chaco asked.

  Pavia reared back and side-kicked the door directly on the armature. The door succumbed and was now hanging by one hinge.

  “I was just about to try it,” Chaco said. The hallway was barely lit by an exit sign stuck in mid-dissolve between English and Spanish.

  “Which way?” Pavia asked.

  Chaco referenced his Netpad and pointed. “To the right.”

  Pavia marched past him, barely navigating the width of the doorframe. Like the stairwell, the hallway’s carpet was an aromatic time capsule, and Chaco thought he could pick out various odors. Or maybe there had just been a huge party the night before.

  In most New American cities, living space had become a commodity, so the typical hotel crammed as many occupants onto a floor as code would allow. Such was the case with Oprah’s in Harlem, and as Chaco followed Pavia down the corridor, muffled room sounds lingered around every door. These audible fragments detached and stuck with Chaco, creating visual scenarios that played out in his mind. Room 309: an argument between two gay guys. Room 312: an old movie, possibly the remake of Superman with the black guy in the lead. Room 340: some extreme fucking and spanking. Room 354: a party, but the language was Third World.

  “This is it,” Pavia said, stepping up to Room 360. Its welcome panel flashed a staticky La bienvenida and cast his face in various shades of electric red.

  Chaco drew his Light-Force. Pavia followed, but his was an older model – the kind anyone with connections could get on the Black Net.

  “I never saw that,” Chaco said, gesturing.

  Pavia grunted approvingly, and they waited for the room’s system to announce them.

  “I don’t think it’s working,” Chaco said.

  Pavia rapped his fist against the door. “Marl?!” He waited, then knocked again. “Marl, this is Pavia and Chaco!”

  No response.

  “This is bullshit.” Pavia stepped back and prepped to unleash another kick. Chaco moved to the side of the door and pressed his back against the wall. He wanted to give him a wide berth, but the door buzzed and slid opened.

  “Deja?!” Chaco exclaimed. “What the hell?”

  “Now listen, Sonny,” Deja said, backing up. “Before you go off, hear me out.”

  Pavia charged around Chaco into the center of the room. It was deceptively large, and they were standing in a quasi-living room. Off to the left was a hallway that led to a bedroom. The drapes were drawn, and the air felt like the HVAC had been disengaged for at least a month. Deja was standing on the other side of the living room, having backed against a small table. Her palms were up in an appeal for reasonableness and understanding.

  “Deja!” Chaco said, holstering his Light-Force, “what are you doing here? I told you to stay out of this. We’re not screwing around. This is a serious situation. Corazon’s life may be at stake, and we don’t know who or what we’re dealing with.”

  “Ms. Moriarty,” Pavia said sternly. His Light-Force was still drawn and leveled at her. “Where is Mrs. Goya?”

  Chaco stepped up. “You can lower that,” he said.

  Pavia ignored him, his jaw gnashing fiercely.

  “Hey, Pavia, lower the gun. That’s an order.”

  Pavia leaned in, and Chaco noticed that the gun didn’t waver. “This isn’t your jurisdiction, agent.”

  Chaco stepped back. “The hell it isn’t.”

  “Oscar!” Corazon appeared in the hallway that led to the bedroom. Her inflection sounded like she had addressed a family pet that had just lunged at a guest.

  “Kita!” Pavia said. He turned without losing his aim on Deja.

  “Oscar, dear,” Corazon said, “I’m all right, see?” She stepped into the room, her arms spread. “Now put that silly gun away.”

  Pavia obediently lowered the gun to his side. Chaco, now about five feet from him and completely on edge, removed his Light-Force.

  “Are you all right?” Pavia asked, his attention firmly on Corazon.

  “Of course, Oscar. Why would I not be?”

  “We believe this Marl person may be part of a more organized, global action.”

  “In a sense, Mr. Pavia, you are correct.” Marl emerged from the darkened hallway behind Corazon. In the soft light, Chaco could see he was wearing the same coat as always, but now its pattern was a monochromatic Gaussian noise. It reminded him of the static he had seen on his grandfather’s silicon chip-based television when he had flipped through the dead channels.

  Pavia slowly raised his gun at Marl.

  “I can assure you,” Marl continued as he came around Corazon, “this action will be of great significance.”

  “Step away from her,” Pavia said.

  “I don’t think this is really any of your affair, Oscar.”

  “Shut the hell up, Marl – or whatever your name is – and step away from her ... now.” Pavia engaged the Light-Force’s loading sequence; its whine lacerated the tension.

  Chaco engaged his own Light-Force, and its sequencer’s whine mixed in. He leveled his gun at Pavia.

  Marl casually regarded Pavia’s Light-Force. A faint smile formed at the edges of his mouth.

  “Oscar, please,” Corazon pleaded. “For God’s sake, Marl is not going to hurt–”

  “Kita!” Pavia exclaimed. The sides of his scalp were now moist with sweat. “Please, listen to me. This ... this clone is dangerous. Get away from him!”

  Corazon stepped back as if by pure reflex.

  Marl turned to speak to her. “If you wish to join them, I won’t stop you.”

  Corazon was now about five feet directly behind Marl. Chaco hoped Pavia had sized up the situation’s tactical issues.

  “Go on,” Marl said to Corazon. “It’s all right.”

  Corazon folded her arms and defiantly shook her head.

  Pavia raised the Light-Force directly at Marl’s chest.

  Marl casually considered it and then leveled his attention at Pavia. His look seemed to have the weight of the world behind it, which Chaco was beginning to suspect it might.

  “She’s made her choice, Oscar,” Marl said, his voice an octave lower.

  Chaco noticed Pavia’s hand was shaking slightly. “Don’t do it,” he said.

  “Fuck it,” Pavia replied.

  The Light-Forc
e’s flash burned the room’s features into a violent blur of ball lightning. In the second before Chaco’s ocular membranes activated, his brain seemed to seize up, as if what he had just witnessed was too terrible to process.

  “My God,” he said as the horrific after-image of the Light-Force striking Corazon burned through his conscience.

  27. DEAD SPACE

  Chaco heard, rather than saw, Pavia’s gun hit the carpet. The dense weave absorbed much of the noise, though he thought the weapon landed somewhere off his right foot. The room was filled with the sweet smell he remembered from the academy. The floor shook, and he slowly opened his eyes, praying that the negative image burned onto his retinas wasn’t real. But as his ocular membranes retracted, he saw that Pavia had dropped to his knees and was sitting on his heels. He had his hands to his mouth and was rocking in sync to what sounded like inhuman moans.

  Chaco heard himself say, “Oh no,” but he couldn’t recall the words actually forming in his mind. Nothing felt quite real, as if he were viewing the whole scene from a distance in a near-death experience, watching himself from above and behind rather than experiencing the scene through his own eyes.

  A barking sound edged into his awareness and hovered there, repeating. Gradually, he realized Deja was screaming “Oh, my God,” over and over again, but everything came across as one word in quick, sharp gasps.

  Their eyes met.

  “Sonny ...” she began, but the rest came out in high-pitched squeaks that only captured fragments of the words. He thought she said: What are we going to do?

  He looked around, but Marl was gone. The reality of the event punched Chaco in the gut, and his stomach rolled. He walked across the room and took Deja into his arms. She buried her head and cried into his chest. He held her tightly, wishing there was something he could say. She looked up, her cheeks slick with tears.

  Chaco began to speak, but stopped himself.

  Deja briefly glanced where Corazon had been.

  Jesus.

  “Sonny, what ...” She couldn’t finish.

  Chaco had seen the results of a Light-Force discharge on a lab animal during a training exercise at the academy, but nothing could have prepared him for the debiolization of a human being. He couldn’t help but stare at the gelatinous puddle that had been Corazon Kita Goya. It pooled in the threshold of the hallway looking remarkably like a spilled drink. It was hard for him to imagine that, only seconds earlier, it had been a living being. “There’s nothing we can do,” he said.

  “Oh, Cor ...” Deja broke from his embrace and approached the puddle.

  “Don’t touch it!” Chaco and his fellow trainees had watched a vid playback of the test firing. Even enhanced slow motion couldn’t adequately capture the horror of debiolization, and the residual effects could last for several minutes.

  “Gatito,” Pavia moaned in shock, his arms stretched toward the puddle. Chaco could only feel pity for the man. He walked over and knelt, but Pavia didn’t seem to register his presence.

  “Oscar,” he said softly, “we’ve got to get out of here. If Marl comes back–”

  Pavia whimpered something in a mix of Spanglish and street talk. Chaco could only pick out a few words – “my love” and “little one.”

  “Oscar,” he said more firmly. “We have to get out of here.”

  Pavia turned and looked at Chaco as if he were dreaming. His eyes were filled with tears, and his hands were trembling.

  “Come on,” Chaco ordered. “You know we have to.” The case was now seriously beyond just fucked up and had entered a very dangerous stage. He looked about again and wondered if Marl would suddenly materialize. What the hell would he do then?

  Pavia composed himself and struggled to his feet. Chaco picked up Pavia’s gun and handed it to him. Pavia regarded the weapon for a moment before he slipped it under his coat. He glanced at the puddle, and a hardening descended over him, as if another personality had taken over. Chaco figured it was the veteran agent’s years of dealing with death that had finally kicked in.

  Deja, still squatting by the puddle, mournfully looked up.

  “We need to leave now,” Chaco said.

  “I know,” Pavia uttered while he tentatively adjusted his fedora.

  “Come on, Dej,” Chaco said.

  “Sonny ...” She looked at the puddle and back. “Shouldn’t we say a prayer or something?”

  He began to agree, but thought better of it. “I don’t feel comfortable hanging around. Marl could come back.” Chaco didn’t really know what to do if Marl returned. His training had never prepared him for a case like this, and he was beginning to think going to someone in DoD wasn’t such a bad idea, after all. He felt the stares of Deja and Pavia. ”Lets get out of here,” he said finally and slipped his gun back into its holster.

  “But shouldn’t we, ah, clean her up?”

  “No! Please don’t touch it. It’ll be dangerous for at least another couple of minutes.”

  Deja quickly backed away from the puddle and drew near Chaco. She wrapped her arm around his waist, and he could feel she was still shaking.

  They all gave their attention to the darkening wet spot in the carpet.

  “Good bye, Cor,” Deja said softly. “I’ll miss you.”

  * * *

  The Thin’s hydoshower didn’t seem to be helping. Chaco’s gut was all knotted up, and there was a nagging reflux at the back of his throat.

  “Increase pressure,” he ordered.

  The shower responded, and Chaco eagerly accepted its super-heated punches. After 20 minutes, though, he still felt like shit.

  “Off!”

  He took a towel from its hook and mechanically began drying himself. He was present, but not really. The ride back to The Thin had been silent. Pavia seemed in a daze and didn’t even acknowledge Chaco and Deja when they stepped from his car. Chaco’s mind kept ebbing back to the after-image of Corazon and what his next moves should be.

  “Sonny?” Deja appeared at the bathroom door wrapped in one of the hotel’s lavish bathrobes. Its thick collar cradled her head like angel’s wings.

  “Yeah?”

  She looked at him with such care it almost hurt. “What are you feeling?”

  Chaco wrapped the towel around his waist. “To tell you the truth, I’m pretty numb right now.” He leaned against the glass hydroshower wall and rubbed what little water was left from his face. “I’m not totally sure what happened. I thought Marl was standing in front of Corazon.... I mean, one second he’s there, the next, he’s gone? I don’t get it. And what the hell was Pavia thinking, firing like that? We have no idea what we’re dealing with here. Hitting Marl could have killed all of us!” He cinched the towel tighter. “I don’t know what’s going on any more. If Marl let this happen, I don’t understand the purpose of Corazon’s death. And how did he just disappear? That kind of technology doesn’t exist. What the hell is going on here?!” He stormed past Deja into the bedroom.

  She followed. “Maybe Marl had a reason–”

  “A reason?!” Chaco stopped in the middle of the room. “What the hell could he possibly gain from letting her die? If he’s an alien, he sure as hell didn’t come in peace.”

  Deja settled onto the bed and tucked her knees against her chest. “Maybe he’s got a higher purpose,” she offered. “One we can’t understand.”

  “You talk like you’re defending him. The last time I checked, wasn’t Corazon your friend?”

  Deja cowered and turned away.

  “Oh, baby, I’m ... I’m sorry.” Chaco sat on the bed and tried to comfort her.

  Deja leaned back into his hug. “I think she was, Sonny. She was so lonely, and I guess she felt like she could really open up with me.”

  Chaco held Deja, and for a brief moment her pain was kept at bay.

  “What do you think is going to happen to Oscar?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “The good news – if there is any – is that since Corazon was illegal,
she technically never existed.... I mean as a clone. I doubt there’s an official death record for the original Kita Goya. So as far as the grid’s concerned, she’s still living. Goya could just make another one and let his PR people spin whatever they wanted. But how Oscar’s going to explain the death of Corazon to Goya is anyone’s guess. I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes.”

  “Sonny ... do you think Oscar was in love with her?”

  “I think so. Or at least, he sure reacted like he was.”

  Deja stared reflectively. “That’s so sad.”

  “Yes, it is. I can’t imagine doing–”

  Deja squeezed him. “Shh. Don’t talk like that.”

  Chaco kissed her forehead. “Let’s get some sleep.” He threw the towel to the floor and slid under the covers.

  Deja removed her robe and clicked off the light. She nestled into his favorite position: her leg rucked over his waist with her head buried into his shoulder. She felt good – so warm and fresh from her shower – and Chaco had come to love the way her hair smelled. It conjured feelings of security, although he didn’t know why.

  The room’s darkness seemed absolute, and sleep was slow to come. Since Chaco rarely remembered his dreams, sleep was nothing more than the dead space between closing and opening his eyes. Usually, it represented freedom from the stress of working for one of the world’s most powerful police organizations. Tonight was different, however. All he could feel was a predacious fear lurking near the boundary of his soul. He gently squeezed Deja, and she moaned softly.

  “Dear God,” he whispered into the room’s void, “please don’t let me dream tonight.”

  28. BULLSHIT

  “You want another hit, honey?”

  Gives-a-Shit shifted the tray to her other hand. Her t-shirt this morning was promotional swag for an L.A. band named Thickboys. Their tattooed heads appeared too big for their bodies; their necks looked like blobs of solder from a bad welding job. It wasn’t a bioshirt, which was a relief to Deja. If a place had more than a dozen people wearing them in a small space – such as Bar of Soap – it could get real old, real fast. She just wasn’t up for that in-your-face crap this early ... especially this morning.