by Marjorie Liu
He releases the puker, who gasps and clings to the wall. He vomits.
Alexander does not feel compelled to apologize. No one seems to have noticed what happened. He does not worry about the puker complaining. The puker is a little man and Alexander is powerful, untouchable.
Sunlight beckons, and this time his smile is genuine.
Alexander pulls his old comics out of storage and spends the evening thumbing through the varied adventures of the caped wonder, lingering over those stories that pit him against his human nemesis. A childhood habit: Alexander has sought comfort in these pages since he was four years old, the age he discovered the meaning of his name, the purpose to his life.
“At last!” the archvillain says to the hero. “I have you now!”
If only, Alexander thinks. But that is the thing about the Last Kryptonian. In the comics, no one ever really has him. Not even the intrepid gal reporter, who must share her man with every bleeding body and broken soul to cross his path. The Last Kryptonian is a paragon, the best kind of man, and that means he never truly owns himself. Pure compassion cannot live in isolation. It demands the world.
And the world demands it back. The world needs more compassion. The world needs the kind of man Alexander knows he will never be.
The government proposals are still in Alexander’s office safe, waiting to be signed. All of them require the creation of new life, creatures as of yet beyond the ken of man. Their desired purposes are varied, innocuous on the page. Alexander is not fooled. These organisms, should RanTech succeed in making them, will alter the world—just as the worms—when their existence is finally, inevitably, revealed—will alter the way people view bioengineering. It is not enough to say one supports science. The real test is to see the finished product, fat and glistening, and not flinch.
Even Alexander is incapable of that, which should be all the answer he needs, but still he keeps the papers, and still he promises the government that yes, any day now, he will sign and return them and once again begin the process of evolutionary quilting, piecing together scraps of biology into a useful fabric.
Because if he does not do this, someone else will, and while Alexander does not entirely trust himself, he has even less faith in those who would take his place. It is a strange sensation, wanting to save the world—while at the same time creating the very things that will irrevocably change it, for better or worse. Sometimes he wishes he could talk to his father about these things.
Of course, it helps that the money is good.
The next morning, he signs the papers.
A week passes, and then two. Dr. Reynolds provides daily reports, which are along the lines of, “The worms are still down there.” A complete and accurate statement, which tells Alexander everything he needs to know.
The worms are down there. They are eating. They are growing.
Alexander hopes the government understands what it is doing, though he himself does not fear reprisals, bad press, or protesters on his doorstep. The government provides anonymity to keep RanTech free and clear to run its experiments, a cordon so all-encompassing, violent, and complete that even Alexander, who can imagine a lot, is not worried about being betrayed. It is very liberating, this lack of oversight, though Alexander still feels his moral compass with its needle a-quiver. The ethical and the not-so-ethical, holding hands.
He wishes he really could hold someone’s hand, just once.
He almost messages the woman who handles his nighttime affairs. I found several great candidates, she had written that morning, with photos attached. Beautiful men, with chiseled jaws and perfect, wavy hair. The ache in his chest is unbearable when he looks at them, and he imagines, as he always does, that one of these men might make him feel less lonely—if only for a moment.
He stares at the photographs. Picks up his cell phone. But for once, he doesn’t give in. Instead, he thinks of sitting in the park with Richard, sharing that tasteless sandwich.
Richard has been spending more time in the general vicinity of Alexander’s office. Alexander knows this because he pays attention to the man. Even if Richard does not care about Alexander in any special way, Alexander cares about Richard and what he has to say. Richard is not afraid of Alexander.
If only Alexander’s other employees were straightforward.
Alexander hears them talking on a day when he wanders through the labs, peering into instruments and poking around spreadsheets, enjoying—for once, without guilt—the simple pleasure of great imaginations applied to science.
His employees return late from lunch and do not know their boss is communing with sea slugs behind a pile of newly arrived supply crates.
“He’s a freak,” says a man.
“If you got a red cape I bet you he’d let you fuck his fortress of solitude.”
They laugh, and walk away.
Alexander does not follow them. He stares at the sea slugs in their tank, his chest growing tighter. Time passes and he knows he must leave; someone will find him, and he cannot bear to face the owners of those voices.
Holding his breath, Alexander listens hard and carefully slips out from behind the crates. He takes one step, two, and just when he thinks he is free to run, movement catches his eye. Too late; he has been seen.
It is Richard, holding a wet vacuum.
The two men stare at each other. Alexander cannot fathom Richard’s expression, but his silence is confirmation enough. He has heard every word of that awful conversation.
Heat suffuses Alexander’s face; he cannot meet Richard’s eyes. Staring at the wall, he turns and walks quickly to the door.
Dignity bleeding, Alexander returns to his office.
Alexander does not dwell long on the incident. He has overheard many variations of that particular conversation, and while each one cuts raw, he recovers quickly. Life is too short to waste on insults.
Still, he wonders what Richard makes of it, what else the man has heard during his time at RanTech.
Alexander does not have to wonder long.
He is in the private gym down the hall from his office, swinging a one-hundred-pound kettle bell, when Richard knocks on the door and walks in. The secretary knows not to stop him. Richard is free to come and go as he pleases, though he has never been told this explicitly.
“That would break my spine,” Richard says, and bounces on a fitness ball.
Alexander grunts, finishing his last rep. “Being fit projects a strong corporate image. Also, I am not naturally charismatic. Looking good makes it easier to convince people to do what I want.”
Richard snorts and something about it makes Alexander laugh. A chuckle, really, but it’s rare enough that it startles him. He points to his briefcase.
“Front pocket. There’s an envelope.”
Alexander stretches out on his toes and elbows to do a plank. Richard peers inside the envelope. “Baseball tickets?”
“I’m told the Dodgers are playing.”
Richard gives him a crooked grin. “You noticed my hat.”
Alexander gives up exercising. It’s hard to focus, when he’s suddenly so embarrassed. Richard leans back, folding his arms over his stomach.
“My old man liked the Dodgers, so I wear the hat to remember him. He’s worth remembering. I lost a bunch of his stuff some years back, so I make do with what I can.” He hesitates. “But I’m a basketball fan, myself. Never even been to a baseball game.”
“Oh,” Alexander says, and then: “Neither have I. My dad didn’t . . . well, I guess I wasn’t into sports.”
He reaches for the envelope, but Richard waves it in the air. “You can’t take back gifts. Two tickets in here, right? So, we’ll go together. Maybe we’ll both learn something.”
Alexander blinks. “I’d . . . like that.”
“Good. Because you need some mentorship, kid. You need some time with reg
ular people.”
“The people who work here are pretty regular. I guess.”
“They ain’t regular. They’re your employees. Shit, I’m your employee. But you’re the least regular of all. In fact, you’re a mess.”
“A . . . mess?”
“You heard me.”
“I can tell you’ve been giving this some thought.”
“Enough to make me crazy.”
Alexander does not know whether to be pleased or worried. “So. I’m making you crazy. Why is that?”
Richard shakes his head. There are shadows under his eyes, new lines around his mouth. Alexander wonders if perhaps Richard has been going a little crazy thinking of him.
“I don’t get you. Haven’t from the beginning, but I could tell you had a good heart. And after I was here for a while and saw how you run this place, I knew you had more than that. Real brains. Talent. One of those bright futures you hear people bragging about, but don’t really deserve.” He narrows his eyes. “I still don’t know if you deserve it, but I know you ain’t wasting it. And that’s rare. Most of us blow every chance we get. I did that. I was an attorney for twenty years, a good one. Then I slipped. Kept slipping. Didn’t care. Deliberately fucked up because I was angry and grieving about stupid shit that couldn’t be fixed. Kid, I had a long tantrum that ruined my life.”
This is not what Alexander expected. Richard leans forward and drums his fingers on his knee, a harsh, rough sound.
“But here’s what I don’t understand. You let your employees talk shit about you—real abuse—and hard as I try, I can’t feel sorry for you. You know why? Because you ask for it.”
“I ask for it,” Alexander echoes, tasting those words.
Richard’s gaze is pained. “Little things add up. Like your head, the way you shave it. What, three times a day?”
“I like my scalp,” Alexander says, soft.
“Yeah, we know.” He points at all the posters of the Last Kryptonian hanging on the gym walls, along with other memorabilia from his private collection. Alexander’s private gym has always seemed like an acceptable place for that sort of thing. “The other idiots think you’re just a rich nerd who wants to look like a supervillain. Nothing wrong with that. I’d tell them to go fuck themselves, if that was the case. But I think it goes deeper. This isn’t a fashion choice. You want to be Lex Luthor. You think this world is a comic book and you want to be him.”
“Want to be?” Alexander laughs weakly, something raw and bitter rising in his throat. “I think I already am. And . . . so what? It doesn’t hurt anyone, does it? It’s my life, my choice, if . . . if I feel more alive when . . . when . . .”
He stops, stunned that he’s close to tears. He turns his head, takes a deep breath.
Richard says nothing for a long time. He merely stares at Alexander, and then—to the young man’s relief—turns his gaze on the window, looking down at the hordes of nameless, nearly faceless, people tramping down the sidewalk. Alexander grows light-headed from holding his breath.
Richard says, “I had a son. He died. He’d be about your age now. You don’t drink and drive, do you?”
“I don’t drink alcohol.”
“I didn’t think so.” Richard glances at him. “You told me once you believe a man can fly.”
Some men can, Alexander thinks. Somewhere, there has to be that man. For me.
And maybe it shows on his face because Richard straightens and looks hard in Alexander’s eyes. Alexander senses a fissure between them: closing or opening, he cannot tell. Only, that he wants to cross the distance and does not dare.
Richard stirs. “You ain’t no supervillain, kid. But you believe. You really believe it all, like it’s not made up. Like you could touch it with your hands.”
“Yes,” Alexander breathes, because to say it louder would feel coarse, like a desecration of the truth, the myth. “Yes. I’ve always believed.”
Believed in the perfect essence of the myth, the stark lines between good and evil. How one must have the other to survive.
He can’t help himself. He looks at a poster of the Last Kryptonian, just for a moment.
Perhaps Richard is psychic. Perhaps Alexander has revealed more than he thought possible: in his face, his words. Richard looks at the poster, too. His eyes grow dark with understanding, and he says in a deep, strange voice, “My son once told me he was in love, and I mean, in love with Prince. That’s you, ain’t it? You’re in love, not with Prince, but with him . . . the man who flies.”
Surprising, to hear those words out loud. Surprising and thrilling.
Alexander sits up, steady and full and ready to speak. But someone knocks on the door.
It is Dr. Reynolds. Her face is flushed.
“There’s a problem,” she says.
Richard follows them to the Mayback. When Dr. Reynolds slips into the back seat, he places a strong hand on Alexander’s shoulder, holding him still. His eyes are clear and hard.
The two men do not speak, but it is enough. Their conversation remains unfinished and neither man dares let the other out of his sight until some final word has rung. What has already been said is too strange. Like a dream, it might fade if not held tight.
Alexander steps aside and motions for Richard to precede him into the Mayback. Dr. Reynolds looks on with some surprise, but Alexander does not explain. He is the boss and today he will take advantage of it.
They drive from downtown into an un-financed part of the city. Not so worn as to be inhospitable, but not so up-and-coming as to be frequented by anyone whose questions about the odd comings and goings of windowless utility vans, the frequent descent of uniformed men and women into the shadows below the street, might be listened to.
It is just the city government doing work, the locals think. Special maintenance. Very special. The ones who know better—well, no one listens to the people in that neighborhood, anyway.
Dr. Reynolds says, “Everything was fine on Friday. The sludge levels were getting low, but the federal scientists promised—those idiots—they promised me they would put more in over the weekend.”
“Kathy—”
“They did it on purpose, Mr. Lutheran.” Her voice breaks. Alexander wonders if he will lose this woman after today’s work. “They wanted to see what would happen.”
Alexander closes his eyes. Richard remains silent, watching them both.
A member of Dr. Reynolds’ team meets them at the site, bearing enough protective gear for two people. Alexander sends the young man back for another suit; Richard is coming with them. A bad decision, perhaps, but it is part of Alexander’s reckless drive toward honesty. He cannot stop, no matter the price.
Richard asks no questions when Alexander gives the order—he says nothing at all—but his eyes are sharp, sharp, sharp.
Alexander helps Richard dress. The protective gear—suit, mask, oxygen—are tricky for the uninitiated. Alexander does not look at Richard’s face as his capable hands zip and tug and button. The moment is inappropriate for words.
And what can Alexander say? Don’t be afraid of my touch. Don’t be afraid of me. Please, don’t be afraid.
Dr. Reynolds bounces on her toes, agitated. “We don’t have time for this. Please, Mr. Lutheran.”
“I’m done.” Alexander steps back from Richard. Their eyes meet and Alexander turns away, toward the sewer entrance. “Let’s go.”
They descend. Down, down deep into shadow, Alexander leading the way. His mask is off, his ears keen for screams, shouts—cries of horror. Nothing. He hears nothing human.
Nothing human. Nothing coherent. Just flesh, whispering, dry and cool; the sucking of large mouths.
He smells shit. Shit, and something stronger, bitter.
Bitter, like blood.
“Fuck,” Richard whispers, as they make their final descent into the sewe
r, stepping onto the concrete platform.
An appropriate response. Alexander would say something similar if he could, but his mouth will not work. Nothing seems to work but his eyes and mind, and how lovely—how miraculous it would be, if Alexander could somehow turn those organs off. At the moment, they are vital to nothing but nightmare.
And the nightmare is this, what the government could have prevented, what they should have known would happen: the worms have grown. Grown large and long and strong. Their sludge is gone.
And they are still hungry.
The experiments at RanTech, repeated time and time again, have shown that the worms have only one instinct, and that is to feed. Reproduction is asexual and infrequent, stimulated by solitude: a single worm, immersed in large amounts of sludge, will grow buds of baby worms across its body. When the worms emerge, they spill into the sludge and begin to feed.
And so the cycle goes. Feed, feed, feed—it is always feeding with them. Even when the food runs out.
Alexander watches a mouth bang against dry concrete; diverted, the orifice sucks air, seeking purchase, anything soft and wet. Flesh will do. Flesh will do just fine. It is warm, it yields to sharp lips, and just below the surface is blood, and deeper, the remnants of sludge. It is as good a meal as any, and better than death.
Alexander notices the government scientists huddled in a group, taking notes and casting surreptitious glances in his direction. Some of them look sick, but even nausea seems to take on a dispassionate quality in their faces. The worms are eating each other alive, spraying blood with each bite, tearing flesh in mighty chunks, and the scientists are doing nothing to stop it. They do not want to stop it. They will let these creatures torture each other, and simply watch.
Alexander’s hands curl into fists. “Who’s in charge here?”
They stare. A dark-suited figure in a rain slicker pushes clear. The puker, his black eyes small and smug. He looks as though he has been ill, but power, it seems, is a fine medicine.