Cole Perriman's Terminal Games (47 page)

She couldn’t worry about that right now. She had to act. If her hunch was correct, she was going to have to
speak
to Auggie from inside his own mind—to deliver a message so potent, so powerful that it would disable or destroy him.

What would this seem like to Auggie? It would probably be like the voices heard by schizophrenics—those inexplicable utterances that seemed to come out of nowhere. Marianne had read how dire, how dreadful such psychotic audio hallucinations could be, sometimes counseling their unfortunate hearers to self-injury or even suicide. Marianne had to become such a voice—had to become Auggie’s
hallucination.

She closed her eyes and listened intently, carefully, just as she had those many years ago. But her surroundings were much more quiet than they had been at the meeting house. There was no singing children, no rattling of leaves, no traffic noises. A Santa Barbara night was a true miracle of silence. Marianne could hear no sound at all except the soft whir of the fan in her computer. Marianne focused her attention on the whir, devoted herself to it utterly, allowed it to become the collective murmur of that sad congregation of souls who comprised the one great and terrible soul called Auggie.

And a startling realization came to her.

When she had given ministry at the age of ten, she had done so
as
Auggie—
as a ragged clown spouting improprieties. She had done so in all innocence, and it was important for her to remember—to
always
remember—that Auggie did his terrible deeds in the same frame of mind. The clown’s very subconscious was comprised of human minds, with all their own hidden and suppressed desires. Auggie’s actions might be born of the fury of his human cells, but they were carried out in a kind of ghastly and unhallowed innocence.

That did not alter the simple fact that he had to be stopped from killing—from causing people to kill. And she knew it would take her testimony to stop him. But this time, she had to utter her truthful blasphemies in a different role …

She opened her eyes and looked at the white spot in the center of the screen. Without another thought, she began to type. And as she typed, the words appeared in white letters across the center of the screen …

I AM PIERROT.

The words remained frozen on the screen for a moment. Marianne tried to imagine the consternation they must have caused to the cells in attendance at this meeting, who had never heard any voice other than Auggie’s speak to them in the Basement—who were, in fact, the sum total of Auggie himself at this very moment. At last, Marianne’s words disappeared and were replaced by a written question …

WHO ARE YOU?

It was a query made out of Auggie’s understandable bafflement. Surely Marianne herself would respond in much the same manner if some strange entity verbally introduced itself to her out of the recesses of her own brain. For a moment, she wondered whether one person was typing Auggie’s responses to her or whether many people had their hands on their keyboards.

It’s all the same. One or many typing the words, it’s still Auggie talking, and it’s still all of them there within him.

She typed again …

I AM WHO I SAID I AM. I AM PIERROT.

A much shorter interval passed before the next response …

WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY MIND?

For an instant, Marianne felt a pang of pity for what she was about to do. She was about to destroy Auggie’s universe, about to drive him mad with the truth about his existence.

She was going to drive him to suicide.

She was going to end his life.

She felt a pang of horror at the thought. She had never been the cause of anyone’s death. It was hard enough to imagine doing such a thing while staring into someone’s eyes. Now she would be staring straight into someone’s heart—a heart that had been, at least to some extent, her own.

But she couldn’t hold herself back because of pity.

She simply had to do it. She typed again.

I HAVE COME TO TELL YOU WHAT I AM.

Auggie’s answer came almost immediately.

WHAT ARE YOU, THEN?

Their conversation began to flow quickly, inexorably. Marianne’s lips and fingers had to hurry along to keep pace with their talk.

I AM NOT WHAT YOU SAY I AM. I AM NOT A GHOST.

YOU ARE NOT?

I AM NOT A SIMULATION

YOU ARE NOT?

I AM FLESH AND BONE AND BLOOD.

YOU LIE.

I DO NOT LIE. IT IS WRONG TO KILL ME. IT IS WRONG TO KILL MY KIND.

BUT YOU CANNOT BE KILLED.

I CAN BE KILLED.

WHAT IS DEATH, THEN?

I DO NOT KNOW.

THEN HOW CAN YOU SAY YOU CAN BE KILLED?

Auggie’s last query startled Marianne.

It’s a good thing both hemispheres of my brain are fully engaged. I’m going to need all the mental firepower I can get.

She typed again.

BECAUSE I HAVE SEEN OTHERS OF MY KIND DIE.

WHY DO THEY DIE?

BECAUSE DEATH COMES TO ALL OF US.

EVERY ONE OF YOU MUST DIE?

YES.

THEN WHY DO YOU COMPLAIN ABOUT MY KILLING YOU?

Marianne paused again.

Damn, he’s really good at this. I’ve got to be careful, or I’m liable to make him more murderous than he already is. It’s time to take off the gloves.

She resumed her typing.

DEATH IS NOT A PLEASANT PROSPECT.

WHY NOT?

BECAUSE IT MAY BRING NOTHINGNESS.

YOU DO NOT KNOW THAT FOR CERTAIN.

HOW WOULD YOU LIKE IT IF I KILLED YOU?

I CANNOT BE KILLED.

WHY NOT?

BECAUSE I AM ETERNAL.

YOU ARE NOT ETERNAL.

YOU LIE AGAIN.

I DO NOT LIE.

EXPLAIN YOURSELF, THEN.

ARE THERE HOLES IN ETERNITY?

OF COURSE NOT.

WHY NOT?

ETERNITY IS CONTINUOUS. ETERNITY IS ETERNAL.

THERE ARE HOLES IN YOUR ETERNITY.

THERE CANNOT BE.

BUT THERE ARE.

PROVE IT TO ME.

Marianne sat silently for a moment, focusing again on the sound of the whirring computer fan. She couldn’t afford to make the slightest mistake now. Her mind had to be absolutely clear. She typed again.

CAN YOU TELL TIME, AUGGIE?

OF COURSE.

HOW MANY HOURS ARE THERE IN A DAY?

THERE ARE 9.

Marianne felt a thrill of impending success. Because Insomnimania was online from eight
p.m
. to five
a.m
., Auggie experienced only nine hours each day. But that little fact was about to change—at least if Maisie kept his promise …

I’ve got him. I know I’ve got Auggie now.

She typed again.

WHAT HOUR COMES AFTER THE HOUR OF 4?

THE HOUR OF 4 IS FOLLOWED BY THE HOUR OF 8.

This was it. She was luring Auggie into her trap.

TELL ME, AUGGIE. CAN YOU COUNT TO 12?

OF COURSE.

THEN DO SO FOR ME.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12.

ISN’T IT ABSURD THAT YOUR CLOCK SHOULD SKIP FROM 4 TO 8?

NO MORE ABSURD THAN IF IT SHOULD SKIP FROM 12 TO 1.

Marianne felt slightly dazed by the Alice-in-Wonderland logic of Auggie’s last observation. Why, indeed, weren’t hours numbered like years—with no end in sight? “I’ll meet you at six-zillion-five-hundred-million-and-six o’clock.” Being a clown, Auggie could be expected to accept and even relish such absurdities. But Marianne had no time to savor conundrums. She typed again.

A REAL DAY CONTAINS 24 HOURS.

THAT’S RIDICULOUS.

BUT IT’S THE TRUTH. BETWEEN YOUR HOURS OF 4 AND 8 THERE ARE 15 OTHER HOURS.

WHY DO I NOT EXPERIENCE THEM?

BECAUSE YOU DO NOT EXIST WHEN THEY TAKE PLACE.

HOW CAN I NOT EXIST?

BECAUSE YOU ARE NOT ETERNAL.

ARE YOU SAYING I CAN DIE?

YOU DO DIE. EVERY DAY. YOU DIE FOR 15 HOURS.

This time, Marianne received no reply from Auggie at all. Perhaps he was worried. Perhaps she was getting to him. At last, Auggie spoke.

WHO TAKES MY LIFE AWAY?

I DO. I AND MY KIND.

SO IT IS BY YOUR GRACE THAT I LIVE AT ALL?

YES. AND WE CAN CHOOSE NEVER TO LET YOU LIVE AGAIN.

I DON’T BELIEVE IT.

IT IS TRUE.

PROVE IT TO ME.

I WILL.

HOW?

BY SHOWING YOU A MOMENT OF YOUR OWN NONEXISTENCE.

Marianne looked at her watch. To her surprise, it was now four fifty-four. It seemed as though she had just started her Conversation With Auggie. How had the time passed so quickly? She typed again.

I AM DOING IT RIGHT NOW. IT IS NOW 6 MINUTES BEFORE 5.

NO. IT IS 6 MINUTES BEFORE 8.

YOU ARE WRONG. IT WILL SOON BE 5 O’CLOCK.

THERE IS NO SUCH TIME.

BUT WHAT IF THERE WERE? IF I WERE TO PROVE IT, WHAT WOULD YOU DO?

A long pause fell before Auggie’s reply.

I WOULD STOP BEING.

YOU WOULD KILL YOURSELF?

I WOULD CHOOSE NOT TO EXIST.

WHY?

IT WOULD NOT BE WORTH EXISTING.

WHY?

BECAUSE I CANNOT BE ETERNAL.

Marianne felt that pang of pity again. If Auggie was true to his word, he would put an end to his life in the next few minutes.

If he is true to his word …

She shuddered again at the thought of her own broken promises. Would Maisie keep the network turned on? Would Auggie, the ultimate trickster, be true to his word?

For the moment, there was nothing else to say. Marianne stared at her computer clock and waited. Time slowed considerably during this last handful of minutes. Then, at long last, five o’clock had come. Marianne felt a terrible anticipation. Now Auggie was experiencing a time of day he never knew existed—standing face to face with the simple fact of his own nothingness. Now he understood. He simply had to.

The clock has struck thirteen.

Then Auggie’s words appeared on the screen.

I MUST ASK YOU AGAIN. WHAT IS DEATH?

Marianne felt her throat catch a little before she typed her final, fatal pronouncement.

I DO NOT KNOW.

Then the monitor erupted into a blaze of whiteness—an explosive flash so fierce that Marianne feared it would burst her screen. She shielded her eyes. The speaker, too, crackled with a loud, ferocious hiss.

Then the hissing died away. A silence followed. Marianne lowered her hands from her eyes. Insomnimania’s desktop maze was back on the screen, displaying the routes to Babbage Beach and the Speakers’ Corner and Casino del Camino.

The Basement was gone.

But I must make sure.

And again, she typed the words …

“Auggie is Auggie”

… and struck the return key.

Across the desktop maze, two words appeared in a standardized rectangular box …

INVALID COMMAND

He really did it.
Marianne’s sigh held more exhaustion than relief.
He did just what he promised.

But was he really dead?

The Basement had been the center of Auggie’s mind. Auggie had, in effect, fired a bullet through his frontal lobes. Auggie’s personality, Auggie’s very
self
was gone.

Then he was truly dead.

And now, how did Marianne feel? She sat staring at the two words on her computer screen, exploring her own reactions. She was surprised at her feeling of
finality
. She had spent many days coming to terms with Renee’s death, but Auggie’s death already seemed real.

And yes, she felt a deep, pitying horror. She knew that Auggie had only existed for a few months, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was also very ancient—as old as consciousness itself. It was a terrible thing to bring about the death of a creature so singular, so mysterious. And in an awful way she felt sickened even to consider, she had been closer to Auggie than she had ever been to anyone. It would have been easier to lead a total stranger to his death.

But then she thought of the lives she had saved, of the people Auggie now would never kill.

I did the right thing.

And she sighed again—this time with a mounting sense of relief. She logged off Insomnimania and turned off her computer. At that very moment, she was startled by the sound of her phone ringing. She picked it up. It was Maisie.

“Well, I did it, kid,” Maisie said. “Can I shut down now?”

“Sure. Thanks for your help.’

“We just got some kind of goofy surge.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Just what the fuck happened?”

“Let me get some sleep, Maisie,” Marianne said tiredly. “I’ll file a report tomorrow, okay?”

“You’re starting to sound like a cop,” Maisie said.

“Maybe I’m starting to sound like a cop’s wife,” Marianne said with a laugh. “Anyway, thanks again. I owe you one.”

“Don’t expect me to forget it.”

Marianne hung up the phone. She felt a deep relaxation creeping through every muscle in her body—a relaxation far more profound than any she had achieved in her recent meditations. It came from knowing her terrible ordeal was over. And it came, too, from having searched out, comprehended, and put an end to the creature who had destroyed Renee.

Again, Marianne considered calling Nolan. But it was still only a few minutes after five o’clock. It was hardly the time to try to explain to him the extraordinary events of the last few hours—hardly the time to try to make him understand that the Auggie case was over. What Marianne needed right now was sleep—a couple of hours, at least, before she talked to Nolan.

She turned off her office light, leaving only the soft hall light on. She made her way to the bathroom, where she took a long, luxurious shower. The hard pellets of hot water felt unspeakably soothing and luxurious. They washed away the pain and ugliness and terror of the whole event. She got out of the shower, dried herself, slipped into her kimono, and began to walk toward her bedroom. But on the way, she noticed an odd glow emanating from her office. She walked into her office and looked around.

To her shock, she saw that her computer was on, displaying the marbleized screen-saver.

But I turned it off. I know I turned it off.

Her hand trembled as she reached over to nudge the mouse. When she did, five words appeared across a black background.

DON’T YOU WANT TO KNOW?

Marianne shuddered deeply.

He’s here. Auggie’s in my house.