To Dream

by Lowy, Louis K;

  By the third day Philo did more telling than asking. He was a gifted narrator who wove pictures of the devastation that had been heaped upon them since the Great War had begun.

  It was impossible for J-1 not to picture the smell of charred flesh, pulverized brick and mortar, empty stomachs, and barren, sour fields. If even a quarter of what Philo was saying were true, it meant that his makers were heinous, vile creatures, and that as their creation, he may not be any better. He cupped his forehead in his hand and wished he’d never ingested the GTS, never left the warehouse, and never gotten this cursed inner voice that made him feel angry, remorseful and guilty.

  “From hundreds of thousands it came down to eight hundred of us making a last stand in Backborne, our capital city,” Philo continued. “But the end was inevitable, Backborne was lost. We had to make a decision. Die or seek refuge and regroup. We chose the latter and ended up here, but not before losing a quarter of the eight hundred to the journey and to the Dark Prey.”

  “How did you end up here?”

  “I over imbibed and decided it would be a grand lark to break into the nursery for a late night snack of fresh chornilopes. Big miscalculation.”

  “No. I mean how did all of you end up in Pocketsville?”

  “Oh, that. Norma and the council decided the mountain’s rough terrain and cloud cover would provide protection from your people.” He went on to explain that the terrain turned out to be harder than they had anticipated and that if they hadn’t met the crazy lady, Mata, they most likely would have perished. “She’s the one who led us to this spot. She also designed our power grid, but nowadays the old girl is more demented than genius.”

  If that were true, J-1 thought, he wondered what Norma sees in her. “Why do you say that?”

  There was a pause. “We all cope with the war the best we can. Some seek revenge and some cave. A robot like you probably analyzes. I drink. I suppose Mata subsists by seeking comfort within her own illusions. That leaves her sanity, shall we say, open to discussion.”

  There were heavy footsteps. The day guard, Bethel, appeared from the dank hallway. She stopped in front of Philo’s cell. “Okay, big boy,” she said. “You’re a free man.”

  “Already?” Philo asked. “Time zips when you pass it with pleasant company.”

  J-1 squeezed what he could of his head through the bars to catch a glimpse of his former neighbor. He saw Bethel press a series of buttons on a handheld remote control device and heard Philo’s cell slide open. Philo stepped out and bowed. He was a slim man with a potbelly. Dressed in a looser version of the red jumpsuit that J-1 was wearing, Philo had short, sandy hair and a surprisingly well-trimmed beard.

  “May I wish my cellmate good fortune?” he asked.

  “It’s a robot.”

  “Having said that,” Philo replied. “May I?”

  Bethel rolled her eyes. “I suppose.”

  Philo reached his hand out. “May luck smile upon you.” J-1 stuck his hand through the bars. Philo said with an engaging smile, “I hope one day you’ll do me the honor of a visit.” They shook. J-1 felt not only Philo’s palm, but also something else pressing against his hand.

  “The only place that tradshit’s visiting is the scrap heap,” Bethel said.

  “Not until after I get a hold of it!” Orson’s voice roared through the hall.

  Bethel led Philo away. The echo of their fading footsteps was replaced with more of Orson’s insults. J-1 listened to Orson’s vitriol and tried to bury it by imagining himself powering down: a waking powering down where he was on a Ferris wheel and a woman with mocha skin identical to his was hugging him. He winced. Is this my way of coping? By escaping into my own mirage? “No,” he said forcing the vision away and taking hold of Orson’s venomous words. “I’m stronger than that.” He opened his hand and studied the folded note that Philo had slipped him.

  ~~~

  Norma entered the Infirmary, which was nothing more than a ten-by-twelve foot admittance room with a dark hallway behind it. Norma hated the hallway. It led to twelve rooms, six on each side. She had been told it was kept darker than the admittance room on purpose to provide a calmer atmosphere for the patients. She didn’t see the logic in that. If anything, the patient quarters seemed drearier than the admissions area, which was decorated with pictures drawn by young school children. What disturbed her the most about the hall was its odor. It had a faint smell of charred wood, antiseptic, and sour mop water.

  Norma signed in, entered the hall and tried to hold her breath. It didn’t help. The foul smell powered its way into her nostrils. With it came the memory of her husband Broderich, and her daughters, Rack and Roneel. The hallway odor was tinged with the vinegary scent of their decaying bodies, of her armpit sweat as she dragged each one of them to the fire pit, of their blazing corpses withering to soot and ash. She wanted to obliterate the hellish stench and at the same time embed it in her brain for eternity. It weakened her. It strengthened her. It steeled her resolve to kill, and kill some more. She paused in front of Mata’s room to allow her hands to stop trembling. She entered.

  Norma was stunned. Mata had always looked poorly, but this was entirely different. In the ten days since she had been admitted, the flesh on the old woman’s scorched, wizened face had sunken into dry puddles. The skin around her cheekbones was so cadaverous it looked as if it were about to crack. Her scalp was almost bare with small clumps of hair follicles and her maroon eyes had darkened to a near brown. Norma dragged a stool from the other bed, which was now empty, and brought it to Mata’s side. Despite this, Norma continued to stand and stare in disbelief. “Mata? It’s Norma.”

  Mata’s chest, wrists and ankles were strapped to the bed. Her shoulders and neck were stretched up as far out as she could get them so she could look at the fingers of her good hand. They were fisting and spreading like a perpetually blooming flower.

  Norma feathered her hand across Mata’s dry, hot brow. “What are you doing with your hand?”

  “Following the butterfly,” she said in English. “Right, God?”

  Norma rushed to the door and closed it. “You’ve got to speak Truattan. You know that.” She had figured out long ago that Mata was an Earther. Mata’s adroit understanding of Earth technology had made that perfectly clear.

  Neither one had ever acknowledged it, but both understood that if it were discovered, she would likely be executed as a spy. Why Norma trusted and believed in Mata boiled down to two things. First, Norma sensed they shared a parental bond forged in misery. There was something in Mata, a certain longing and desire that only came from losing a child. Norma understood the feeling. Second, and more importantly, she had little choice but to trust her. They needed her. Mata was the only one with the knowledge and engineering skill to defeat the Earthers.

  Norma tried to lower Mata’s head back to the pillow.

  “Don’t do that,” Mata said in Truattan. “I can’t lose sight of the butterfly. It’s taking me to Jay and Miguel.”

  “You can’t go. We need you here.”

  Mata wasn’t listening. Her mind was somewhere else. Norma released her grip and studied the branch thin, disfigured creature. Norma felt the hollowness in the pit of her gut rise up. Without even a half-sane Mata, their already slim chances of overcoming the Earthers was nearly impossible. The hollowness she tried hard to fill with rage and revenge, with the warmth of Teague’s body over hers, with the dead, bloody corpses of slain Earthers, overwhelmed her again. Norma studied the old woman who was transfixed on her opening and closing hand. She blinked back tears. She wanted with all of her heart to go to wherever Mata was going. To the place of mothers and children, of husbands and wives, silent skies and warm, restful nights.

  No, damn it. Norma slapped Mata. “We need you here. My daughters and husband need you here.” She shook Mata’s shoulders hard and slapped her again. “My people need you to stay. Do you hear me? You can’t go!”

  A shiver ran through the old woman. Her eyes swell
ed. She looked like someone who had a bucket of ice water tossed over her head. Mata said to Norma, “No more Pramador. God doesn’t like it. Only the GTS.”

  “No more,” Norma quietly replied. “I promise.”

  Cuthbert flung the door open and rushed into the room. “What the landerbyss is going—” He cut himself off when he saw Norma. “Commander Mardeen, I didn’t know you were here.”

  “Who gave you permission to give her Pramador?”

  Cuthbert took a step back. “Well…that is, I—”

  “We’ll speak about this later.” Norma ordered Mata’s tranquilizers to be stopped immediately and to have her cleaned up and ready for release by the end of the day. Cuthbert practically bowed before leaving. When he had exited Norma said to Mata, “There’s a robot I think you should see.”

  Mata studied Norma’s eyes. “What kind of robot?”

  “It’s in bad shape, but it has mocha skin.”

  Mata gasped. Her eyes widened. “You’re a mother-fucker, God. To play with me like this.”

  Norma kissed Mata’s forehead. “We’ll talk in the morning after the drugs have worn off.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Date: 2250

  8 Star Island Drive

  Star Island, Miami Isle, Florida

  Xia had to admit, Herb and Carl knew how to throw a party. There were at least three hundred people. The ballroom was crammed with pencil-thin, androgynous women. Their hair was cropped in nape-of-the-neck shingles or bobs. They were decked out in boas, sheik pants and silver-beaded flapper dresses. Many were topless. Most were shimmying with ukulele flailing men dressed in tuxedoes and raccoon coats. On the second floor balcony a bandstand projected an audio-visi image of Louie Armstrong juking with Brian Setzer, Duke Ellington, and Jacqueline O.X.7 to a frantic version of “I Got Rhythm.”

  Holographic fireworks shot like missiles across the walls and ceilings. They exploded into geometric shapes evocative of the Art Deco era. From the ceiling center a pair of nude trapeze artists—a man and woman—leapt from swing to swing. Servants dressed in tiger-stripe suits weaved through the crowd offering trays of hors d’oeuvres and drinks. Humans made up to look like gold or marble statues stood motionless on pedestals.

  Xia handed his black walking stick and bowler to a skimpily dressed hatcheck girl. Other than those two items and his black wingtip shoes, the rest of his attire—dress gloves, dinner jacket, shirt, double-breasted waistcoat, slacks and spats—was snow white.

  “G-tini, sir?” A passing servant carrying blue-tinged drinks asked him

  Xia removed his gloves, tucked them in his dinner jacket and seized one of the GTS-infused martinis. In the past week, since he had returned from Truatta, he’d met with both his and Rebeka’s lawyers to discuss the situation. Their conclusions were the same. They could put together a case of fraud against Herb, Carl, and Rebeka’s former lawyer, Jocsun Lipp. It would tie up litigation for decades and there was less than a fifty-fifty shot of winning because of the stringently worded clause.

  That left Xia with plan B, to convince Herb and Carl not to go through with the lawsuit. The only problem with that was short of threatening murder he had no clue how to persuade them.

  Shouting broke out to his left. An Al Capone lookalike fired a tommy gun at one of the men who was arguing. The man’s chest bled red. He toppled over. The woman he was with screamed. The music stopped. The crowd froze. Capone fired his machine gun at the woman. Blood sprayed from her forehead and mouth. She fell. “Who’s next?” Capone waved his weapon at the dancers. The crowd yelled and fell to their stomachs. A man in a wide-brimmed black hat, black trench coat and a scarlet-lined black cape rushed in. He had a scarlet bandana tied around his nose and the lower half of his face. He whipped out a pair of revolvers. Capone fired his tommy gun at the wraith-like man. The man fired his guns at Capone in a blaze of smoke and flash. The gangster’s neck and chest spurted puddles of blood. He groaned and tumbled onto his back. Other than a few crying women, there was stunned silence.

  Xia shook his head and smirked. He handed his half-finished drink to a passing servant.

  The mysterious man lowered his bandana, waved his revolvers in the air and shouted, “Hi-de-hi-de-ho ladies and gents. Enjoy the evening!” The gunned down men and woman stood and bowed. The crowd broke out in nervous laughter and clapped loudly. The music and fireworks picked up again. The dancers stood and resumed their gyrations. The formally masked avenger walked over to Xia, looked over his attire and said, “I thought your era was late Victorian.”

  “And I thought that you disliked playing with guns, Herb.”

  “On the contrary.” Herb twirled the guns into his side holsters. “I’m quite a marksman.” Patting them, he added, “These, of course, are outfitted with blanks.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m flattered that you could make my little soiree, Xia. If you’ll excuse me.” Herb walked away.

  “Hold on.”

  “Yes?”

  By the smug way Herb said it, Xia knew that he had been waiting for this.

  “Is there someplace else more suitable for conversation?”

  “You’re wasting your time.” Herb took a G-tini from a passing servant.

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. At least hear me out.”

  Herb smiled. “I suppose I can spare five or ten minutes.” He led Xia down an ornate hallway near the end of the ballroom.

  ~~~

  Outside the den, the pistol shots had died down and the music had picked up again. Inside, Carl reached for a tube of GTS. He squeezed the gel over his hand, sat on Jocsun’s naked lap and ran his palm up Jocsun’s thigh. Jocsun nuzzled his lips against the bare skin of Carl’s back. Carl moaned. Jocsun pressed his lips harder against Carl’s skin. Carl pulled back, “No marks,” he whispered.

  “The gel’ll make them disappear,” Jocsun replied, kissing softer.

  “Can’t take any chances, sweetie.” Carl turned and bit Jocsun’s nipple enough to break the flesh. He felt Jocsun harden, which caused him to do the same. Jocsun wrapped his arms around Carl, lowered him into a half-recumbent position on the leather sofa and rolled on top of him.

  ~~~

  Xia was something he usually wasn’t—nervous. He still had no idea what he was going to say to convince Herb to end the takeover.

  “I’m surprised my sister sent someone else to do her business,” Herb said as they continued down the hall.

  “She couldn’t get away,” Xia said. “The company’s falling apart.”

  “Falling apart?” Herb laughed. “Really, Xia. That’s not worthy of a man of your stature.”

  Xia reddened from the lame attempt to influence him. “I suppose not. But be honest, Herb. Do you really want the responsibility of running Ameri-Inc.? It’s a goddamn mother-fucker. You know that.”

  “True,” Herb said.

  “Why not work out something with Rebeka where she maintains day-to-day control and you share in the ownership?”

  Herb stopped walking and looked Xia squarely in the eye. “May I be blunt?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I’m doing this because I loathe my sister. Nearly all my life she treated me like an inferior nuisance, not a younger brother.” He smiled. “I want her to feel like I felt.”

  Surprisingly, Xia didn’t see the hate in Herb’s eyes that his words expressed. He saw something stronger. A longing to claim what he never had, Rebeka’s love. If he couldn’t get that, Xia realized, Herb would settle for second best—her destruction.

  They walked a little farther in silence. Herb stopped in front of one of several doors that lined the hallway. He grasped the doorknob and said, “After you, but like I said, it won’t do any good.”

  Xia didn’t move. “Then why waste either of our time?”

  Herb released the knob. “Because it’s not a waste on my part. It’s a pleasure.”

  Xia understood. Herb wanted to relish every dire attempt to save Rebeka from her inevitabl
e collapse. At the same time Herb’s desire shattered Xia because he—Xia—truly loved the woman.

  Herb slipped a gold vial of G-89 from an upper pocket of his trench coat. He removed the cap, spread some of the powder on the heel of his palm, and snorted it. He offered the vial to Xia, who shook it off. Herb again reached for the doorknob and turned it, but it was locked. Herb licked his thumb and waved it beneath the knob. There were three soft clicks. Herb turned the knob and motioned Xia in.

  ~~~

  Jocsun was the first to hear someone enter the room. He shoved Carl off of him and jolted to a reclining position. Carl was confused, but recovered his bearings when the door swung open and the hall light flooded in. “I had the door locked for a reason!” he shouted to the backlit silhouettes. “Get the fuck out of here if you want to keep your jobs!”

  “Carl?”

  “Oh, shit,” Carl muttered.

  “Max lumen,” Herb said as he shut the door. The room illuminated in a flood of light.

  Carl slapped Jocsun’s face and dashed into Herb’s arms. He shuddered with sobs. “I tried to fend him off, but he forced me,” Carl’s voice trembled. “Oh, Herb, it was horrible.”

  “That’s a goddamn lie,” Jocsun said. “He came on to me.”

  Carl spun in Jocsun’s direction. “You son of a bitch. How dare you!” He rushed toward Jocsun with his arms forward and fingers spread like a rabid feline.

  Xia grabbed him by the back of the neck and held him in tow.

  Herb quietly walked over and cuddled Carl in his arms.

  Xia said to Jocsun, “You’d better leave.” Jocsun scrambled for his pants and rapidly slipped them on. Xia glanced at Herb, who was pressing the back of Carl’s head to his shoulder. Carl cried. Herb’s face was filled with so much bewilderment and pain that even though he disliked the man, Xia felt sorry for him.

  Jocsun said, “I’m telling you this wasn’t my idea,” as he was making his way out of the den with his shirt and jacket in hand.