“Brother, you cannot possibly believe that the bonded pair poses a threat to me,” he said.
“He is more than the bond,” Heyer said. “You have no idea how dangerous that man is.”
Malkier turned and studied him. “Is this some pathetic bluff, brother? If you truly imagine this man a threat to me—then what? Am I to believe you are suddenly concerned for my well-being?”
Heyer shook his head. “No. I know what you’ve done. The precautions you put in place after Dams the Gate was born. I know what happens if you die.”
Malkier’s white eyes widened as though Heyer’s words gave him a renewed fascination. “Well, that is interesting,” he said. “And why do you think I put those counter measures in place?”
“To make an attempt on your life impossible for me.”
“Brother,” Malkier said. “A precaution, yes, but a deterrent? Is that really what you assumed?”
Heyer swallowed. The way his brother looked at him made him fear he had misunderstood. “Malkier, you have me captive. I’m not a threat. If you insist on going after Brings the Rain, you must disable the counter measures.”
“No,” Malkier said. “I will do no such thing.”
“Malkier, you cannot hate them so much,” he pleaded. “Why would you allow this if it will do nothing to save the Ferox? It’s genocide for no reason.”
“No reason?” Malkier whispered.
A long moment stretched out between them.
“Let me ask you, brother,” Malkier finally said. “Why is it that you hide in the shadows of their world? Why do you think it is that you go to such great lengths to keep our ancestor’s technology out of their hands?”
Heyer blinked, caught off guard by the sudden strangeness of the question. “Mankind will advance in their own time, and they will be better for it,” Heyer finally said. “It is not my place.”
Malkier looked at him as though he were disappointed. “Be honest with yourself, Heyer. Admit to me that, even now, their progress worries you. You fear what Mankind would do with the power you could give them. That you know the day will come that Mankind will be outside our control.”
“It is not my desire to control them. I worry for them, of course, but every step they take has just as much reason for hope as it does fear.”
His brother closed his eyes, seeming saddened by every word Heyer said. “You say hope,” he said. “You don’t seem to realize that you really mean hope for Mankind—you certainly do not mean hope for all.”
“They could be one in the same.”
Malkier shook his head. “Have you ever asked yourself when the darkest period of Borealis history came to pass?”
“I fear that I am witnessing it.”
His brother glared at him. “Dramatic, but hardly. Cede, my brother seems to have a blind spot in his history. Tell us, what period is considered the darkest age of the Borealis?
“A majority of Borealis historians cite the onset of the Immortal Revolution as the species’ darkest age,” Cede replied.
“And what was it, Cede, that put the Immortal Revolution into motion?” Malkier asked.
“The age began shortly after the development of the Borealis implant,” Cede answered.
Malkier pointed to his brother’s chest, and then his own. “Can you imagine? How one technological advancement changed everything?”
Heyer didn’t answer the question. There was little need; he was already beginning to understand the shape of his brother’s madness.
“You see, the Borealis experienced a philosophical shift. The few religious sects that found followers with the promise of everlasting life were already marginalized. The faiths lost the means to bring in new followers, and as such, were dealt a blow they could not withstand. But, that didn’t change who the Borealis were—didn’t change their nature. They still longed to be a part of something larger. The notion of simply existing for the sake of existing still left them feeling a void,” Malkier said.
“The humans are not our ancestors,” Heyer whispered, doubting there was any point, that his brother would ever truly see where his self-hatred had led him.
Malkier sighed. “Cede, given the current rate of human advancement, how far off would you estimate Mankind is from developing technologies analogous to the Borealis implant?”
“Without any drastic setbacks,” Cede replied, “humanity should achieve practical immortality within the next 200 years.”
A moment passed as Malkier let the computer’s estimates sink in.
“When death no longer held them back, the distance between the Borealis and all other sentient species became staggering. Our ancestors came to redefine their image of God so that they would fit that image. Then assigned themselves the role of curator for all existence. When those ancient Borealis spread throughout the known dimensions, they brought about the greatest mass extinction of life in the known history.”
Listening to his brother, the chasm between them felt too far to cross. When had the self-hatred become madness? How long ago had his brother taken his final step? When had he reached the point that he could not see his true reflection in the mirror? Had Heyer watched it happen—had the death of Dams the Gate been the last straw, the excuse to break with reality that allowed his brother to see whatever he wanted to see?
As Heyer heard his brother’s reasoning, he could not imagine what would need to be different about him to make his brother’s conclusions feel justified. He found himself wondering, again, about the short space of time between their births. Thousands of years later and they would be better off as strangers. He wondered at how the only ones who would ever look at them side by side and know they were descendants of the same species were themselves. He thought these things, because he saw no way to get his brother to understand something so very simple….
Sometimes—even if you are right … if everything you imagine comes to pass … if the future vindicates you with every passing moment—you can still be utterly and completely wrong.
It seemed the type of thing you either understood or you didn’t.
Heyer knew he had to stop his brother, but he saw his own hypocrisy. He had drawn a line in the sand, and that line was genocide. Now, his brother was telling him he had every intention of crossing that line. Should the day come that Heyer stood over his brother’s body—the day he disabled the gates and left the Ferox to run their course … Heyer would never tell himself he had done what had to be done—that he had no reason to think his actions exempt from question. No, he would tell himself that he had drawn a line and it had been crossed.
What line could Malkier say humanity had crossed? None. He wanted to rid existence of humanity for a line they might someday cross. It was almost as though he didn’t want them to ever have the chance to prove that he’d been wrong about them.
The silence dragged out for some time, until Malkier seemed to think Heyer had lost their debate.
“Have you ever thought to wonder why the Foedrata treated Mankind with such cruelty, brother? How, after all, does one species come to torture another when they understand them on so profound a level? Did it never occur to you that they saw their reflection in the mirror—and became disgusted?” Malkier asked
Heyer had grown quite tired, his weariness evident in his responses. This wasn’t a debate; it was Malkier’s attempt to convince Heyer of something of which he would never be convinced.
“The Foedrata were a sect of extremists with egos so fragile they became utterly dependent on their faith to justify their own importance. The existence of Mankind called that faith into question. The Foedrata weren’t disgusted—they were afraid,” Heyer said.
Malkier’s fingers tapped against the metal box yet again. “Mankind will be brought under control and kept from ever realizing their technological potential. They will either be subject to the Ferox or they will be eliminated. I will not allow them to be the next Borealis. So, to answer your question… if I am not alive to make sure they are contai
ned, then in death, I will make sure they are exterminated.”
“So now you imagine yourself the curator of existence,” Heyer said. “Perhaps you’ve played a god so long you fail to see your own hypocrisy when it stares back at you in the mirror.”
“Gods are an idea, brother,” Malkier said. “You and I, for better or worse, are the closest thing to that idea.”
Heyer shook his head.
“Imagine for a moment, brother, that the Foedrata’s beliefs were true all along. If each of our ancestors was a small piece of the creator, then all those pieces would have been funneled into you and I. You don’t have to believe it, but we did inherit the power to take the place of gods when we were born.”
“If any of that were true,” Heyer said, “then I would expect that you and I wouldn’t be at war.”
Malkier sighed. “When I return, we will begin the task of removing your implant from the human body, brother. Perhaps, when you and I share the same host species, we will not see things so differently.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
THURSDAY| OCTOBER 14, 2005 | 2:00 AM | SEATTLE
EARLY IN THE morning, Rylee woke in Jonathan’s bed when an uninvited light suddenly brightened the room. She flinched as her eyes adjusted, and saw that it was coming from his desk. His laptop had woken up out of sleep somehow. She rolled over, attempting to ignore it, but it seemed to flicker. The subtle change in light was bothersome even with her eyelids shut, and she ended up putting her face against the pillow as she waited for the machine to go back to sleep. Then, the laptop made a high-pitched noise that had to have been designed to be annoying.
Groaning, she pulled herself out of the bed to shut the lid. Stepping closer to the screen, she saw it was displaying black and white text.
For a moment, she thought she was dreaming, as computers didn’t typically use her name and then give orders. Confirming she was in fact awake, she frowned at the monitor, her curiosity rousing the rest of her sleepy mind to attention.
Mr. Clean, Rylee realized. But why does he suddenly want to talk to me?
Had the damn alien suddenly decided she was in the need-to-know club?
Looking around a moment, she took Jonathan’s earbuds from his desk drawer, and found there was already a chair waiting for her in the southwest corner of the room. A moment later, the bald cartoon character was looking back at her. Unexpectedly, the computer’s attempt at a serious expression disarmed her reluctance, and a snort of laughter escaped her before she remembered to take things seriously.
“Good morning, Ms. Silva. I am sorry to wake you. It is good that you are still in town. There are developments I need to make you aware of,” the cartoon said.
She gave him a questioning look and was about to speak when she was abruptly cut off by the voice in the ear phones.
“Do not speak—use the keyboard to respond,” Mr. Clean said.
Her mouth was still open, but she glared at the cartoon, finally sighing before she followed instructions. Bossy little cartoon, she thought.
Don’t have any trips planned, she typed. What is the big news—you got a hot date with the Clorox lady?
“Your humor seems intended to antagonize,” Mr. Clean said. “Am I to infer you are expressing irritation with me?”
Apparently the overly sensitive computer can’t take a joke, Rylee thought, then typed Nevermind. Jonathan should be back soon. What is it he needs to know?
“His phone’s GPS signal indicates he is headed north from Portland, Oregon. I cannot make contact with him, and it is rather important that he be updated as soon as possible. May I ask why he has gone?” said the computer.
Don’t know. He didn’t want to say, didn’t want The Cell to know what he was doing, she typed.
“It would have been best that he discuss this with Heyer and myself beforehand,” Mr. Clean said.
Rylee snorted. “Yeah, well he called and called but no one picked up,” she typed.
The cartoon’s face became a deadpan expression. “Am I correct in interpreting your comment as sarcasm? A passive aggressive statement meant to imply that a lack of communication resulted from a failure of myself and Heyer?” Mr. Clean asked.
Affirmative, Rylee typed.
“Yes, well, be that as it may, I have uncovered some disturbing coincidences. I recommend that when you communicate this information to him, you do so with the utmost care that his investigators remain unaware.”
I’ll do my best, Rylee typed. What is it?
“Yesterday, Jonathan attempted to communicate with The Cell watching your activities,” Mr. Clean said. “He appeared quite upset, and his demeanor was aggressive, threatening. His actions would have tipped off The Cell that he was aware of the cameras, so I intercepted the footage and altered it. However, the behavior was quite concerning—highly out of character.”
He didn’t say anything to me about it, Rylee typed. But yeah, he seemed upset last time we spoke.
“Despite his poor judgment, his actions provided a phone number on a business card belonging to a Melissa Hart. I believe he suspected the name to have been an alias used by an agent within The Cell to interact with his mother under false pretenses.”
Explains why he got upset, Rylee typed.
“Do you understand what may have caused him to do something so ill advised?” Mr. Clean asked.
Rylee frowned at the laptop, as though the answer seemed too obvious to require explanation. Then, of course, she realized that an A.I. probably didn’t understand what it was like to be protective of one’s mother, not having one himself.
In short, Rylee typed. Threatening a person’s mother is easily one of the top five ways to piss most humans off. I’d say we were lucky he didn’t tear the camera out of the wall.
“Ahh,” Mr. Clean said. “Well, regardless, I tracked the number back to its source. It was, in fact, a fraudulent call center. However, I also analyzed phone records for outgoing calls made from that location. Great care was taken to send the calls through convoluted channels, but I am certain that a number of them went to occupants of the household next door.”
Leah, Rylee thought.
“Are you saying that his neighbor is connected with The Cell?”
“It is almost certain, but I must request that you and Jonathan exercise extreme caution,” Mr. Clean said. “There are no recordings of the calls, so I cannot comment on the contents of what was communicated. However, I have reviewed all video obtained from the various cameras throughout the household, and noticed other questionable activities,” Mr. Clean said.
Show me, Rylee typed.
The screen filled with footage of Jonathan and Leah in a room Rylee didn’t recognize. Leah’s living room, she assumed. The camera was placed somewhere behind Leah, angled down on the room. Rylee felt herself squirm inside as she watched Leah approaching Jonathan. The way she walked toward him was so comfortably seductive. They exchanged some words but the footage lacked any audio for her to hear.
Leah’s body language, so telling, so eager, was reflected in Jonathan’s expression. What followed made her wish to turn away. She ached painfully, seeing how he responded to her.
“Here is the oddity,” Mr. Clean said over the video.
Suddenly, Jonathan collapsed to his knees against the wall. He cowered there, holding himself. His head shook back and forth as though he were fighting off an onslaught of voices in his mind.
Rylee’s mouth fell open as she realized what she was seeing. She’d experienced what he was going through, and she looked at the time stamp on the footage to be sure. This had been the moment Jonathan had felt her within him. She found herself waiting desperately to see what his face would tell her once he could sort out the storm in his head.
His eyes came open. She saw desperation and conflict and confusion. It wasn’t what she had felt. Suddenly, she saw re
alization—saw his panic. Rylee swallowed. This wasn’t fair. Experiencing Jonathan’s emotions had brought her hope, strength. Given her a sense of peace, and excitement for the future. She had found such comfort in the intimacy of knowing him in a way she could know no other. As she understood, she realized that she had given him a burden. She had given him despair and weakness. She had given him another thing that needed saving.
She hated time and circumstance. Why, of any moment in her life it could have been, did it have to be her weakest hour that he received?
Finally, Jonathan stood. He exchanged words with Leah, his eyes pleading for forgiveness. She knew his thoughts in that moment. If I stay here, a girl will die.
Rylee watched Leah as Jonathan left the room. There was pain, confusion, and rejection on her face. Rylee thought it should please her but found it had quite the opposite effect. Instead, Rylee hated knowing that it was pity and duty that had made him leave.
“Here,” Mr. Clean said, the computer’s voice jarring Rylee from her spell.
She watched the feed again to see Leah staring off into space—a hundred-yard stare only interrupted when her phone started ringing. Leah answered, grew impatient, and yelled something at the caller before throwing the phone away from her.
“Why are you showing me this?” Rylee typed.
“That call—it came from the same call center. It took place within minutes of a temporal event involving you and Jonathan. In addition, it coincides with Jonathan’s reaction to the bond,” Mr. Clean said.
Rylee frowned at the computer’s words. The bond? She was about to type the question when he started speaking again. The footage changed to the very room she sat in now.
“This is the second recording, Ms. Silva. It is possibly more concerning as it involves you more directly.”
At the A.I.’s words, Rylee’s hands paused over the keyboard. She saw Leah entering Jonathan’s bedroom. The girl approached Rylee’s backpack. A few moments later, Rylee’s blood began to boil.
The Never Paradox (Chronicles Of Jonathan Tibbs Book 2) Page 46