Nemecene: The Epoch of Redress (34 page)

He had noticed the mark at the base of her skull the night we had escaped the daze through the ventilation tunnel network. It was while she was bent over drying her hair after we had swum through the water garden by my crypt that he had glimpsed it, but decided against mentioning anything, in case it was a trick of poor lighting. However, as her symptoms became apparent, as he deepened his understanding of the condition, and as we gradually volunteered pertinent background information, he concluded that his observational skills had in fact not failed him. He had been waiting for the opportune moment to test his theory. Once more, what we had been keeping from him, he had already figured out, which makes me wonder why I bother to build invisible walls between us in the first place. The exercise is futile, and it truly no longer serves our purpose for us to continue this little charade.

This is his theory. The depression in the back of Eli's skull bores a shaft into it approximately one finger wide, but without slicing her open like the first mutilated girl in the medical lab, he cannot confirm how deep it tunnels. Based on the size of the slimy slice in the blue goo we found at the killer's place and assuming that it belongs to Mashrin's brain, he surmises a hole large enough to house the critter. So in effect, what we are dealing with is not a defective biochip, but a lack of any at all. The two tiny holes we noted at one end of the specimen could conceivably act as an anchor for it or a vesicle containing it.

I must admit that the logic he employed was sound, except for the phenomenon referred to as death. Eli, and I for that matter, were alive, whereas the girls were not. When I articulated that technicality, Stitch, with much exaggerated movement and a dramatic flick of his squigglers, swooped his hand behind my neck, and fluttering his lashes, he stared into my eyes and gasped theatrically horrified. "Part of your brain is missing too!" A few giggles from the bench made the whole spectacle worth tolerating. He double-poked us, and we all breathed a huge sigh, ready to address our grim reality.

Confusion was the key ingredient in our emotional soup. We spent the better part of an hour speculating, too graphically for my liking, on how delicate a procedure would be necessary to strip pieces off without disabling certain neurological functions, and whether it was even possible to remove such a large chunk without killing the subject. Wouldn't the fragment atrophy with its root system severed? The tissue suspended in the bioluminescent fluid behaved almost consciously, as if it was aware of us watching beyond the crystal barrier. I shudder to think that Stitch is still walking around with a wormy chunk in his brain with a biochip attached to it. Then again, it would explain a few things.

Evidently, we need more answers. Is the specimen even a natural human organ? It reminded me of something out of a carnival freak show, like the one that used to travel the highlands when we were kids. While most of the exhibitions were oddly defective hybrid products or failed bioresearch projects, there were always one or two random jarred items with alien "soul sucker" slime in them, or so they claimed, whose plans to invade the planet had been thwarted by the very merchants who were charging admission. It always got Eli rolling on the ground when sweet gullible Jenny would run out of the booth shrieking, but she is not debunking this creepy creature, although I half-expect it to make a debut appearance at a sideshow somewhere. If only this were nothing but another harmless childhood scare, something benign that draws you in for the fear factor.

As their medical debate droned on, I caught myself losing enthusiasm for the dialog until Eli proposed staging another Osler Hall break-in for clues, and Stitch slipped in a quip about her recent brush with the SIF, at which point I demanded a complete confession. Neither of them denied intentionally suppressing the episode, but Eli reasoned that the case was most likely closed anyway, and that I would just have added this to my list of worries for nothing. There was not much I could say to argue with that, and certainly no reprimand I could throw at them in light of my unscrupulous behavior, so I used it as a lead-in to the nightly adventures I, in turn, was hiding from them.

They listened in shock while I relayed that Nathruyu was still roaming the city, and how much she knew about you, which, I added, did not surprise me since I had already imagined a familiarity with the family by the jewel peeking through her open coat. The two of them had been entertaining the probability that she was the murder suspect. Eli had taken it upon herself to succeed in our previous attempt at identifying the person behind the rusted metal door. Unfortunately, because of the consciousness gap in her evening, not recalling how she had arrived at the club in the first place, the yellow dust she found on her clothing the next morning could only circumstantially prove that she had actually wandered the underground shafts to get there. She had likely been shadowing the suspect. Together with Stitch's earlier comment regarding the glitter above the obscure figure's chest at the arcade, Eli's new attestation of remembering a similar shimmer, and ultimately, my admission about her intoxicating scent, no more could we deny that the beautiful stranger had a perverted alter ego. She was the one.

While Eli was battering me with countless warnings and specifics on her brief yet intense interaction with Nathruyu, my thoughts drifted back to the last rendezvous I had experienced with her, and why I was seriously considering her proposal. At first, I resisted in the interest of safety the prospect of inviting Eli to join us. I clearly had issues with the dark aspects of this woman's personality, and, due to Eli's deteriorating condition, I had deemed it prudent to exhaust all our other leads before introducing her to an SIF suspect, but given that Eli's resolve held fast when confronted with a face-to-face, the proposition may be our final hope. Nathruyu had effectively convinced me that our intimate chats could not continue without Eli, because what she was to share next would permanently alter our perspective on you, on the murders, on Eli's struggle, on myself, and on life itself. We were the key to everything.

Eventually, Stitch sided with me on the issue, and with a reluctant nod, Eli consented. As long as we agreed to meet with her in a public establishment, with high foot traffic and a convenient escape route, Eli should be safe from whatever unspoken treachery Nathruyu may be devising, especially if she intends on trading her to the GHU in return for absolution. Stitch would hang back and monitor the situation from a distance, so that if a betrayal did transpire, he could assist us on the outside, diligently working to pull us out of confinement. Once someone is placed under psychiatric care, regardless of the final diagnosis, they are doomed to a padded cell until they inevitably lose their grip on reality or physically wither away after repeated useless surgical interventions. That prospect does not excite either of us.

As I wrap up my journaling for today, an uncertain future looms. Nathruyu has confirmed our request to connect at the Snack Shack during the second rush. Although my heart wishes otherwise, this could very well be the last time we communicate through the pages of this book. Our destiny now lies in Nathruyu's hands.

Day 42: Late Morning

T
he reflection passes through her as she clears the steam from the fractured glass. Nathruyu's hideout is under surveillance, forcing her to abide in conditions that solely the fortunate few can endure; yet the hardship is no less severe, and the banishment arguably ill-deserved. She had not succeeded in collecting that which she required. Although one such as she might construe the latest oversights as irreconcilable failures, her righteous convictions uphold her stance that the fated sufferings were tolerable losses to incur for the awareness she is cultivating. There will be other victims to acquire, and with either the voluntary or involuntary assistance of her virgin accomplices, her agenda shall overrule.

As she slides an ivory comb through her black silky mane, meticulously parting her hair into three sections, she hears the rumble of the hovertrain overhead and the thunder of the morning rush. Today is a pivotal day, one which will echo throughout the universe, which will secure the foundation for the perfect union, and which will ultimately dismantle the current illusion, for when the scorching sun obediently retreats this cycle to the virulent seas, earth shall meet the night sky, expectant and liberated.

The adrenaline flooding her veins seeks an outlet for its overabundant flow and roosts in a pool at the base of her pelvis, where she savors the intensity she yearns to release. The gathering is scheduled. Eventually, the twins will develop a visceral understanding of the truth, as their faith guides them through the process. Nathruyu would have preferred to involve them earlier, but circumstances were unfavorable under Vincent's watch, and shades of obedience still colored their perception. Now that their distrust of him is absolute, that Keeto is seduced by her challenge, and that Elize has succumbed to an inner drive beyond her intellect, their minds are ripe for the forthcoming transformation. While she exploits their greatest fear and their most intrinsic desire, both intricately woven into their mother's closeted past, she holds them hostage to their obsessions with the enlightenment only she can bequeath them. At last, they are hers to mold.

As her fingertips braid the first long tress, Nathruyu peers intently into the recesses of her shell, explores the urges percolating within, and exhales the weak pressure in her chest. Adjusting the lens in her eye, she laments the absence of natural lighting. She blames her miserable accommodations on everything and everyone but her own carelessness and curses at the yellow dust dulling her lustrous coat. The glow from the generator keeps her from shivering, but the energy is lacking the full range of solar renewal that used to revitalize her spirit as she stood majestically upon her beautiful rooftop sanctuary. Homeless in her beloved city, her present hovel does not do her grace justice, but "just" is not a term she employs in the context of this contrived society. The climate shall soon change, however.

She shakes the poison from her clothing and shines her boots with a discarded rag. From a workman's hook on the wall by her makeshift bed, she grabs the emitter and the false biography she had imprinted beforehand, according her adoption permissions from the Youth Services branch of the GHU. The health history is predictably impeccable, as are her Unified practices. She is an A-class contender for guardianship, and the single decision obliged of her, when she attends the appointment she, as Odwin, arranged at the orphanage, is to select the lucky little soul who will be freed.

The shiny surface of the cooling furnace captures her playful titter as she glides by, mirroring the cleverness of her scheme and the thrill of anointed deceit. With a final snap of her coattails, she threads her way through the underfoot labyrinth to exit by Almedina Square.

The jubilant sound of childhood fun had long been stricken from Nathruyu's memories, and as she pauses in delight by the gated crossway, her ears float above the ocean to the arid land of her origin.

It is the afternoon her innocence was taken, and her parents are watching as she is assaulted by a ritual too traumatic for her young years. She feels the swift slash paralyzing her limbs, the warm red fluid creating a river with her blood, the explosion, the intense heat numbing her senses, and the damp crimson sand choking her lungs. Barely conscious and blinded by hallucinations, she hears the neighborhood children running and laughing in the distance, immersed in their carefree existence and ignorant of the atrocities in the valley nearby. The voices will help her bear the tenuous recovery, and if her essence should drift in the nebulous void to live a dreamless sleep for all eternity, then it is justly so.