Borderless Deceit (53 page)

So much moving on. There had been another good push forward when Jaime and I were still on the kitchen floor, when she asked about
her
. I had replied that, yes, Miss Dunn was the reason I played dead. But not wavering, feeling robust, I had continued, “Miss Dunn no longer
exists, Jaime. She's become somebody else. There's a baby on the way. I'll be a god-parent soon. I'm invited to the christening.”

This brought on a long silence, the one sound being some tinkle-tinkling while Jaime pensively played with her bracelets. The sound was unrushed and it seemed slowly to dispel a shroud, because finally she looked up, relieved, and said: “Out of nothing, a family. A miracle. Cool.” Having got this out, she shifted over until we were shoulder to shoulder and she cleared her throat. “Just so there's no future misunderstanding, Carson, you oughtta know that a while ago you got checked into a psycho ward. So you're not really here. Hope that's okay with you.”

I took this in. “A psycho ward?”

“On account of Irv.”

Jaime described a file on me she'd placed in the records of a US Army Medical Centre near Washington. The cover listed Hugh-S as the authority for my being there. The early diagnosis: nervous exhaustion. A shrink was brought in to see me. His notes on file said it all. In unburdening myself I had admitted to doing all the things Heywood suspected I'd done. Being guilt-wracked and remorse-filled, my corporeal systems had gone out-of-whack. I'd even contemplated suicide. Rachel Dunn was in the file too. I had informed the doctor that I tried to frame her to divert attention from myself. According to the doctor's note, it was his solid professional opinion that her sumptuous love liaisons were pure cock-and-bull, the scenes which I had recorded being ones I wished I could have experienced myself.

This file thus properly padded, Jaime posted a note to Zadokite Port, along with an automated routing for hacking into it.

“Irv was never happier. He loved that army file. I think he crooned all summer long. It made him back right off. That case against you he was working on – he chucked it into the recycle bin.”

“Never begrudge a simpleton his happiness,” I replied warmly.

“Guess it's time to declare you cured. Check you out. What next? Wanna earn a living someplace? How about as a religious guru?”

I nodded. Why not? Heywood would see that as credible. I pushed my shoulder into Jaime's. “What about you? If he's to believe I'll be dispensing faith, what does Heywood think you're doing?”

“I told him when I left, it was to help my brother. He asked what
kind of help. I dunno, I said. Fixing his tax bill. Stuff like that.”

“Tell me about your brother.”

She shook her head. “If you stay, Carson, my brother won't be there anymore. It's that simple.”

Under the sleeping bag on the green mattress, I also thought about Jaime's brother. The last time someone asked, he was at the roulette tables in Monte Carlo. Was I doing that now? Here with Jaime, had some great game of chance begun, the dice already rolling, the roulette ball having started its journey? If eventually the dice rolled short, or the rolling ball settled on the wrong colour, would I then become part of her concept, her metaphor of brother? Had there been others contributing to that concept before me? Who was this Jaime From-Up-North? There was much I needed to ask her and I began in the kitchen. After I told her what happened with Rachel, I said: “And what about you, Jaime? I know nothing about you. I don't know where you're from. I don't know how old you are. I don't know if you've known Hugh-S as long as I have. I don't even know why you thought I should come to San Francisco.”

“I thought you should come here
'
cause I thought we could play a game, you know, hide who we are. Being together, it's fun for the other to find out. I'll give you a clue. I'm both older and younger than you think.”

That was true. She could act at once the parts of both a young thing and an old hand. “I don't know, Jaime. I don't think I know how to play that game.”

“I know you'd be good at it.”

“Are there rules?”

“Not many. But there's a place.”

We had risen. I followed her to a front room. Empty. I followed her to the computer room. It had enough in it to make a start of certain things. Then she opened the door to the third room. “Like it?”

I studied the camping mattress and sleeping bag on the floor. “Jaime. I don't know. I really don't.”

Homey. What don't you know? Look down. What's the colour of the mat?

The messaging device when it began to vibrate startled Heywood. The tiny thing, stuck inside a slender leather holster attached to his belt, made no noise; it merely caused the layer of flesh over his hip bone to quiver. Once this registered, the experience turned sensual, giving him goose flesh all over and sending a shiver up his spine, and that made his neck hairs stand on end. Exquisite feelings. Except on this occasion he had to keep them concealed, the device having sprung into life during a High Council emergency session. So he didn't squiggle as the device vibrated, nor did he utter a loud long
Ahhh
. The only outward show the Czar allowed himself was a slow closing of his eyes. Eventually, with the disguised movement of appearing to massage his stiff hip muscles, he drew the gadget from the holster, ended the vibration and worked other buttons below the table level. Who had bestowed on him this latest wave of pleasure?

Across the table, Claire Desmarais and Ron Hunt were in a furious debate. There had been a military coup in some silly bugger country far away and they were on opposite ends of the spectrum concerning the national response. Étienne des Étoiles vented his exasperation with fingers unendingly drumming the table. The atmosphere was charged and Heywood, convinced no one would notice if he cast his eyes down to his lap, read the screen.

Irv. Progress. You know where to look
.

The Czar's heart skipped a beat. My child, he thought. My prodigy. I miss you. I miss going to your lab. I miss the feeling of discovering things. With you gone the Service complex has turned dull. Where are you now? Still helping out your brother? When will you return?

“Your views, Irving?” Étienne's voice was sharp.

The Czar's head snapped up and he brought his knees together tight. He let the device fall into his lap. He quickly leaned forward and propped himself up, hands placed squarely on the High Council table. “Tricky situation,” he began in a booming voice. “Ron's hit the right buttons. Couldn't add to what he said. Claire's idea – activating the UN – good for media purposes. Go for it. Once more is known about the situation, Service Operations can pitch in. Expats may need to come out. The list of charter companies around the world is up to date.”

“We may need that,” Étienne said, nodding approvingly.

“Well, just let me know.”

Des Étoiles moved on, asking a legal question of Abbie MacAuley. She was not prepared and squirmed as others began to sort out what she ought to have said.

Another High Council storm. But…more clear sailing for Service Operations. For months it had been like this. International crises coming in clutches each and every week and dominating the agenda, whereas, with the plague having played out, the Czar hadn't been in the hot seat once. That was because Service Operations was ticking over with the precision of an atomic clock. He'd seen to that. And central to this perfection was an information and communication system which the techies said was hyper-good. Possibly this was true. It was certainly the envy of the world. Delegations came from everywhere and lined up to have a glimpse. They often asked if virus attacks were a problem, whereupon the Czar marched them to a dark, cooled hall stuffed full of weird equipment. “The firewall,” he'd say, pointing proudly at endless arrays of glowing dots. “Foolproof so far and we remain confident. We have issued a standing offer to the world's great hackers: if they get in – and tell us how – they'll receive a significant cash prize. That's our IT policy:
Face flaws with heroism; address mistakes with stoicism
.” A group from Asia had applauded softly when they heard him say this. Yes, feted by the universe, respected by Étienne, ignored by Ron and Claire, the Czar was riding high. A marvel, how adversity will turn into felicity. The only downside was: Jaime was not part of it.

And now a sign of life, the first in months.
Progress
. Meaning what? The Czar's messaging device was still in his lap and he fidgeted with it some more. He desired to rush off, to a private place, to touch the buttons until the right things happened, until Zadokite Port opened up. Why couldn't the High Council reach a conclusion? Why not adopt the same constructive position it did after every other distant lapse of democracy – pretend it never happened.

Des Étoiles could stomach the bickering no longer and summed up. Once more, water would be poured into the immaculate wine called the country's international policy. This military coup too would be ignored. Vexed, shaking his head, des Étoiles rose, aimed for the panelled wall and vanished like a ghost. Ron Hunt lingered. He counted on a few minutes of post-meeting jousting with Heywood, but
when he looked around all he saw was the Czar's broad backside next to Claire's. The two sets of hams were scurrying off in a race for the double doors. A tie! There was a slight collision before they jointly squeezed through. Ron overheard Heywood's remark.
Claire! Phew. Guess neither of us is getting any smaller
.

The elevator delivered the Czar to ground level, but halfway through the Service complex's entrance foyer, the urge to know what Jaime sent him became too strong. He interrupted the walk to Operations Tower, whisked the high-tech device out of the holster, and fingered tiny buttons to activate encrypted communications. Firewall transit came first and was smoothly accomplished. A short wait now for access to Zadokite Port. It being just after lunch the foyer was full of visitors coming and going and the numerous voices gave rise to a subdued din. None of this got through to Heywood. Outwardly his stance was tranquil, but inwardly he trembled – as if he was feverish. The revelations which Jaime used to orchestrate had been addictive and, just as then, his temperature was now rising. His palms went sweaty. He swallowed hard waiting for the rush.

It came. Zadokite Port divulged that Jaime's
Progress
consisted of two information items. In his statuesque seclusion the Czar pursued a complex path of commands which took him down long highways, across sealed borders, through impenetrable fences, to the other side of guarded doors. He'd been in this place before – the hushed archives of a US Army medical centre. Click, click, click and Carson's file popped open. The beauty of it. Were it not for the screen preventing contact, the Czar would have grabbed and hugged that file. So what was new? Huh, huh, two weeks ago Carson was still listed as psychologically fragile. Good. And last week, yes indeed, he was still taking strong medication. Okay, that made sense too. What else? What? Suddenly declared fit for discharge? Left three days ago?

Creepers, Heywood thought, is the son-of-a-gun on his way back?

Perturbed by item one, he frowned and activated item two.

It was quicker to get at, taking less than a second. A newspaper article appeared on the screen, a reproduction of page 8 of
The South California Spiritualists' Chronicle
. There was a headline with a bolded intro. Heywood gasped.

New Spokesbeing for Pan-Credoism
.

The latest arrival at the Rice Valley Pan-Credo

Monastery, located in the shadows of the Big Maria Mountains, is Carson Pryce
.

“Jumping Jesus!” Heywood muttered. “Pan-Credoism? What in God's great universe is that?” It had the ring of some kind of crustacean getting cooked in a pot. And why had Carson arrived at a monastery? What had those army shrinks done to him? Pumped him full of mood ointments extracted from God knows what kind of weird plant? Still, the image of Carson spending his future wearing a robe made of animal hair piqued Heywood and he scrolled farther.

Pan-credoism, which signifies the esoteric state of experiencing positive belief, has been proclaimed by its adherents to be at the zenith of the theogenetic scale. Its direct evolutionary precedents are pantheism and theopantism, but of course it goes far beyond both. Pan-credoism's capacity for spiritual inclusiveness is greater than any other system of belief which has been, or can be conceived
.

Whoa, thought Heywood, change a word or two and you've got Claire Desmarais babbling on about the UN and the evolution of nation states. What in blazes would Carson be doing with a crowd like that? And he was their new spokesbeing to boot. Had the US Army medical establishment done more than fill him to the eyeballs with funny drugs? Had they done a brain transplant too? Poor man. Well, what kind of prattling would Carson be doing in the interview?

Q: You've just come out of an army medical centre. Can you share your background?

A: I am a scarred survivor of dreadful conflict. I have hurt people. The days left to me in this life are too few for full repentance.

Right on, thought Heywood.
I have hurt people
. Carson's own words, and who would dispute them? The Czar continued scrolling, scanning the interview, mostly theoretical stuff about why men bear arms and go to war. With some nice flourishes Carson pointed at the stupidity of doing that just to please God, as happened to be the case most of the time. It sounded nice, Heywood admitted, even if it lacked fresh insight.

The interview took a new direction, focussing on
transformative experience
. Carson was describing how he'd come to see the light. Heywood's jaw went slack.

Wisdom surrounded me, but I did not recognise it until I was ravished by a plague. It drove me to seek deeper understanding and, plague driven, I fell into wisdom's redeeming arms. My initials are CP. I now know that stood for Corporeal Pestilence. The day came when IH broke through. Inner Harmony. Henceforth the spirit of IH will be guiding me
.