I supposed there was enough of her grandmother in her that Elsebeth might understand.
I began to feel hopeful about the prospect.
Ephraim was less talkative in the morning light. I helped poor shivering Percy into the carriage. I told Ephraim my mother had once published a poem in the
Liberator
, years ago. I couldn’t remember which issue.
“I may not have seen that number,” Ephraim said.
“But I’m sure it was a fine poem.”
I drove Percy to the doctor in Crib Lake. The doctor was an old man with pinch-nose glasses and dirty fingernails. I told him I had shot my servant accidentally, while hunting. The doctor said he did not usually work on colored men, but an extra ten dollars on top of his fee changed his mind.
He told me there was a good chance Percy would pull through, if the fever didn’t worsen.
I thanked him, and I went off to buy myself a drink.
THE GOAT VARIATIONS
Jeff VanderMeer
I
t would have been hot and humid in September in that city, and the Secret Service would have gone in first, before him, to scan for hostile minds, even though it was just a middle school in a county he’d won in the elections, far away from the fighting. He would have emerged from the third black armored vehicle, blinking and looking bewildered as he got his bearings in the sudden sunlight. His aide and the personal bodyguards, who had grown up protecting him, would have surrounded him by his first step onto the asphalt of the driveway. They would have entered the school through the front, stopping under the sign for photos and a few words with the principal, the television cameras recording it all from a safe distance.
He would already be thinking past the event, to the next, and how to prop up sagging public approval ratings, due both to the conflict and his recent “indecision,” which he knew was more analogous to “sickness.” He would be thinking about, or around, the secret cavern beneath the Pentagon and the pale, almost grublike face of the adept in his tank. He would already be thinking about the machine.
By the end of the photo op, the sweat itches on his forehead, trickles into his eyes, burns sour in his mouth, but he has to ignore it for the cameras. He’s turning a new word he learned from a Czech diplomat over and over in his mind.
Ossuary.
A word that sounds free and soaring but just means a pile of skulls. The latest satellite photos from the battlefield states of Kansas, Nebraska, and Idaho make him think of the word. The evangelicals have been eschewing god-missiles for more personal methods of vengeance, even as they tie down federal armies in an endless guerilla war. Sometimes he feels as though he’s presiding over a pile of skulls.
The smile on his face has frozen into a rictus as he realizes there’s something wrong with the sun; there’s a red dot in its center, and it’s eating away at the yellow, bringing a hint of green with it. He can tell he’s the only one who can see it, can sense the pulsing, nervous worry on the face of his aide.
He almost says “ossuary” aloud, but then, as sun-spots wander across his eyes, they are bringing him down a corridor to the classroom where he will meet with the students and tell them a story. They walk past the open doors to the cafeteria—row on row of sagging wooden tables propped up by rusted metal legs; and he experiences a flare of anger. Why
this
school, with the infrastructure crumbling away? The overpowering stale smell of macaroni and cheese and meatloaf nauseates him.
All the while, he engages in small talk with the entourage of teachers trailing in his wake, almost all overweight middle-aged women with circles under their eyes and sagging flesh on their arms. Many of them are black. He smiles into their shiny, receptive faces and remembers the hired help in the mansion growing up. Some of his best friends were black until he took up politics.
For a second, as he looks down, marveling at their snouts and beaks and muzzles, their smiles melt away and he’s surrounded by a pack of animals.
His aide mutters to him through clenched teeth, and two seconds later he realizes the words were, “Stop staring at them so much.” There have always been times when meeting too many people at once has made him feel as if he’s somewhere strange, all the mannerisms and gesticulations and varying tones of voice shimmering into babble. But it’s only lately that people’s faces have changed into a menagerie if he looks at them too long.
They’d briefed him on the secret rooms and the possibility of the machine even before giving him the latest intel on China’s occupation of Japan and Taiwan. Only three hours into his presidency, an armored car had taken him to the Pentagon, away from his wife and the beginnings of the inauguration party. He’d told his vice president to meet the press while he was gone, even though he was now convinced the old man had dementia.
Once inside the Pentagon, they’d entered a green-lit steel elevator that went down for so long he thought for a moment it was broken. It was just him, his aide, a black-ops commander who didn’t give his name, and a small, haggard man who wore an old gray suit over a faded white dress shirt, with no tie.
The elevators had opened to a rush of stale, cool air, like being under a mountain. Beneath the dark green glow of overhead lamps, he could see rows and rows of transparent, bathtub-shaped deprivation vats. In each floated one dreaming adept, skin wrinkled and robbed of color by the exposure to the chemicals that preserved and pacified them. Every shaven head was attached to wires and electrodes, every mouth attached to a breathing tube. Catheters took care of waste.
The stale air soon faded as they walked silent down the rows, replaced by a smell like turpentine mixed with honeysuckle. Sometimes the hands of the adepts twitched, like dogs running in their sleep.
A vast, slow, repeating sound registered in his awareness. Only after several minutes did he realize it was the sound of the adepts as they moved in their vats, each sending a ripple of water that wouldn’t have registered if not for its repetition in thousands of other vats. The room seemed to go on forever, into the far distance of a horizon tinged at its extremity by a darkening that hinted of blood.
His sense of disgust, even revulsion, grew as the little man ran out ahead of them, navigated a path to the control center, a hundred yards in and to the left, its blank, luminous blue glass set a story up and jutting out over the vats like some infernal crane. And still he could not speak, did not know what to say. The atmosphere was a strange combination of morgue, cathedral, and torture chamber. He felt a compulsion, if he spoke, to whisper.
The briefing papers he’d read on the ride over had told him just about everything. For years, adepts had been screened out at birth and, depending on the secret orders peculiar to each administration, either euthanized or imprisoned in remote overseas detention camps. Those that managed to escape detection until adulthood had no rights if caught, not even the rights given to illegal immigrants. The Founding Fathers had been very clear on that in the Constitution.
He had always assumed that adults when caught were eliminated or also sent to the camps. Some might call it the last vestige of a Puritanical brutality, but most citizens despised the invasion of privacy an adept represented or were more worried about how the separatist evangelicals had turned the homeland into a nation of West and East Coasts, with no middle.
But now he knew where his predecessor had been storing the bodies. He just didn’t yet know why.
In the control center, they showed him the images being mined from the depths of the adepts’ REM sleep. They ranged from montages as incomprehensible as the experimental films he’d seen in college to single shots of dead people to grassy hills littered with wildflowers. Ecstasy, grief, madness, peace. Anything imaginable came through in the adepts’ endless sleep.
“Only ten people in the world know every aspect of this project, and three of them are dead, Mr. President,” the black-ops commander told him.
Down below, he could see the little man, blue-tinted, going from vat to vat, checking readings.
“We experimented until we found the right combination of drugs to augment their sight. One particular formula, culled from South American mushrooms mostly, worked best. Suddenly, we began to get more coherent and varied images. Very different from before.”
He felt numb. He had no sympathy for the men and women curled up in the vats below him—an adept’s grenade had killed his father in mid-campaign a decade before, launching his own reluctant career in politics—but, still, he felt numb.
“Are any of them dangerous?” he asked the black-ops commander.
“They’re all dangerous, Mr. President,” the black-ops commander told him. “Every last one.”
“When did this start?”
“With a secret order from your predecessor, Mr. President. Before, we just disappeared them or sent them to work camps in the Alaskas.”
“Why did he do it?”
Even then, he would realize later, a strange music was growing in his head, a distant sound fast approaching.
“He did it, Mr. President, or said he did it, as a way of getting intel on the Heartland separatists.”
Understandable, if extreme. The separatists and the fact that the federal armies had become bogged down fighting them in the Heartland were the main reasons his predecessor’s party no longer controlled the executive, judicial, or legislative branches. And no one had ever succeeded in placing a mole within evangelical ranks.
The scenes continued to cascade over the monitors in a rapid-fire nonsense rhythm.
“What do you do with the images?”
“They’re sent to a team of experts for interpretation, Mr. President. These experts are not told where the images come from.”
“What do these adepts see that is so important?’ The black-ops commander grimaced at the tone of rebuke. “The future, Mr. President. It’s early days, but we believe they see the future.”
“And have you gained much in the way of intel?”
The black-ops commander looked at his feet. “No, not yet, we haven’t. And we don’t know why. The images are jumbled. Some might even be from our past or present. But we have managed to figure out one thing, which is why you’ve been brought here so quickly: Something will happen later this year, in September.”
“Something?”
Down below, the little man had stopped his purposeful wandering and gazed into one of the vats as if mesmerized.
“Something cataclysmic, Mr. President. Across the channels. Across all of the adepts. It’s quite clear. Every adept has a different version of what that something is. And we don’t know
exactly
when, but in September.”
He had a thousand more questions, but at that moment one of the military’s top scientific researchers entered the control room to show them the schematics for the machine—the machine they’d found in the mind of one particular adept.
The time machine.
The teachers are telling him about the weather, and he’s pretending to care as he continues to notice the florescent lighting as yellow as the skin that forms on old butter, the cracks in the dull beige walls, the faded construction paper of old projects taped to those walls, drooping down toward a tired, washed-out green carpet that’s paper-thin under foot.
It’s the kind of event that he’s never really understood the point of, even as he understands the
reason
for it. To prove that he’s still fit for office. To prove that the country, most of it, is free of war and division. To prove he cares about kids, even though this particular school is falling apart. Why this class, why today, is what he really doesn’t understand, with so many world crises—like China’s imperialism, like Iraq as the only bulwark against Russian influence in the Middle East. Or a vice president he now knows may be too old and delusional to be anything other than an embarrassment, and a cabinet he let his family’s political cronies bully him into appointing, and a secret cavern that has infected his thoughts, infected his mind.
And that leads to memories of his father and of the awful silence into which they told him, as he sat coked up and hungover that morning on the pastel couch in some sleazy apartment, how it had happened while his father was working an audience in Atlanta.
All of this has made him realize that there’s only one way to survive the presidency: to just let go of the reality of the world in favor of whatever reality he wants or needs, no matter how selfish.
The teachers are turning into animals again, and he can’t seem to stop it from happening.
The time machine had appeared as an image on their monitors from an adept named Peter in vat 1023, and because they couldn’t figure out the context—weapon? camera? something new?—they had to wake Peter up and have a conversation with him.
A time machine
, he told them.
A time machine?
A machine that travels through time,
he’d clarified. And they’d believed him or, if not believed him, dared to hope he was right. That what Peter had seen while deprived of anything but his own brain, like some deep-sea fish, like something constantly turning inward and then turning inward again, had been a time machine.
If they didn’t build it and they found out later that it might have worked and could have helped them avert or change what was fated to happen in September . . . Well, who could live with that thought?
That day, three hours after being sworn in, he had had to give the order to build a time machine, and quickly.
“Something bad will happen in September. Something bad. Across the channels. Something awful.”
“What?” he kept asking, and the answer was always the same:
“We don’t know.”
They kept telling him that the adepts didn’t seem to convey literal information as much as impressions and visions of the future, filtered through dreamscapes. As if the drugs they’d perfected, which had changed the way the adepts dreamed, both improved and destroyed focus.