Patrick Griffin's Last Breakfast on Earth (23 page)

Rex Abraham was proud of many of the things he had achieved, but the implantation of a computer into his brain—knitting the neurons of his mind directly to a synaptic chip—had been one of the very smartest things he'd ever done. It had, after all, made him
even more
of a genius.

He waited a few moments as the feed petered out, then—via a few very simple mental commands—reactivated his ears and eyes. He was sitting in his expensive Otto Williams chair in the viewing room of his cliffside home, looking out at the purple-tinged Pacific Ocean. He allowed himself a moment to observe a propeller-driven plane putt-putting across the morning horizon before closing his eyes and turning his augmented mind inward to consider the download he'd just received about the boy who had just gone to Ith or—as more than a billion English-speaking morons here might spell it—Eyeth.

Identification had been achieved in a matter of high-bandwidth moments, from the first hysterical 911 call to the spate of emergency responder transmissions that followed, to the hundreds of cross-referenced social media posts, private messages, and voice communications from the family, friends, and relations: the child was Patrick Griffin of 96 Morningside Drive, Hedgerow Heights, New York.

He was in what his local regional educational system called the “seventh grade,” where he was a slightly above-average student in a fairly competitive, affluent, well-educated community. He had mostly received threes (the second highest mark on their scale of four), although he had achieved some low fours in math and science classes. His worst subject appeared to be French—just a 2.4—for which Rex couldn't quite blame him. Even if the world's French-speaking percentage wasn't already plummeting, the Purge was coming and would soon render the study of
any
foreign language moot.

Soon all the French anybody would need to know would be
Renaissance
, which is what Earth's own Division of Recorded Events would publicly call the Reboot, just as had been done on Ith.

The boy's parents were not especially significant—the father was a modestly successful sales representative for a book-publishing corporation, the mother a midlevel human resources consultant. His blood type was O-positive, he lacked any common genetic disorders, and he was in the 65th percentile for height, and the 55th for weight, at 41.1 kilograms.

A pretty unexceptional specimen in all regards. Still, the facts that his native language was that of his new hosts—and wasn't French or any of the other soon-to-be-obsolete languages of Earth—and that he had decades of natural life expectancy ahead of him were troubling. The same two conditions had been true of certain prophets, cult leaders, kings, saints, martyrs …

Still, the boy's journey to Ith was just the playing out of the necessary physics. He was nothing but a randomly determined counterweight to whatever creature those idiot Ith Anarchists had sent here. If 41.1 kilograms of sentience moves one way, then 41.1 kilograms of replacement sentience must go the other way.

And all Rex's organization had to do now was ensure that the entire 82.2 kilograms was terminated in case it in any way slowed his plans to bring Earth into compliance, to unify the three worlds in his vision.

 

CHAPTER 37

A Spy in the House of Puber

The oak-shaded, shrubbery-penned playground somehow reminded Patrick of the one on Sunset Drive near his family's house, although they were hardly interchangeable. For one thing, rather than swing sets, climbing castles, overhead bars, seesaws, and slides, this one featured foam-coated stairs, low-to-the-ground balance bars, and variously sized elliptical trainers, stationary bikes, rowing machines, treadmills, and gymnastics pads.

Patrick tucked his ruined shirt under his left arm and followed Oma over a series of foam-coated exercise bars.

“What is this place? An outdoor gym?”

“It's a KFP—a Community Fitness Park.”

“Weird,” said Patrick, dragging his foot and inadvertently kicking wood chips onto an exercise mat.

There was a scrabbling sound as a blue-collared squirrel darted out from some nearby bushes, stuffed its mouth with the chips, carried them back onto the border, and then vanished into the bushes on the far side of the playground. The entire performance kind of reminded Patrick of a ball boy at a professional tennis match.

“Is that squirrel like the park janitor or something?”

“We'll get to that soon,” said Oma, climbing onto a stationary bicycle.

“So what's the deal?” asked Patrick, getting onto the one next to her. “People come out here and exercise?”

“Yep.”

It suddenly occurred to him that nobody in this dream had seemed at all fat.

“So are we going to—”

“You're free to pedal if you like; I just figured this would be a good place for us to talk privately—nobody will be out here with the Code Crimson on,” she said. “And I'm supposed to ask you a kind of important question.”

“What is it?”

“Do you want to run away with me?”

“What?” said Patrick, blushing outright.

“I'm leaving tonight. The storm should give us some cover from the Peepers and their sky-eyes.”

“You want me to
run away from home
with you?”

She looked down at her toe-shoes and nodded. Her big eyes seemed to be glistening.

“Wait,
who
wanted you to ask me this?”

“The Anarchists, as the Deacons call them—the Commonplacers, as we call ourselves,” she said. “Look, it's either coincidence or the opposite of coincidence that you ended up arriving in my front yard. But either way, it's kind of not an opportunity to be missed. My-Chale—the leader of the entire movement, the
Book of Commonplace
's editor-in-chief—himself has asked me to help you disappear.”

“What?” asked Patrick, feeling a little dizzy. He had suspected Oma had some secrets, but being a member of the group that the entire government seemed dedicated to exterminating was not as far as his mind had been ready to go.

“Wait. You mean, like … you're really working with them, these Anarchists?”

“Yes.”

“So, wait, you want me to
disappear
?”

“Yes, we need to get you away from the Deacons. And I'm to go with you.”

“What about Kempton? What about your parents?”

“Look, I love them, and part of the reason I joined the Commonplacers is I want their lives to be better. I—we—want everybody's lives to be better.”

“So you're, like, a
criminal
?”

“The worst kind of criminal there is, according to them,” she said, gesturing up at the green spider flag flying above the playground.

“Oh,” said Patrick. “But … are you sure about all this? I mean your family seems pretty normal and happy, don't they?”

“Have you
seen
how stressed my father is? How he's constantly struggling not to overeat? Or my mother's addiction to terrible video entertainments? Or Kempton's cultish belief in the Deacons' patriotism program? They're all classic symptoms of unfilled human potential.”

Patrick considered what she said about her family. It was true Kempton didn't exactly seem to be the happiest, most well-adjusted kid. But he'd seen bigger head cases in Hedgerow Heights.

“But on Earth,” he said to her, “I don't think there's a government conspiracy or anything, and there are still a lot of unhappy people.”

“Does your government torture and
enslave
its people?”

“They used to allow it but—no, slavery's illegal these days. Wait, you just mean they enslave people with, like, video games and propaganda and—”

“No. I actually mean physical
slavery.
You asked what would happen if I got caught—if they found out I sympathized with the Commonplacers and was planning to take you away from them?”

He nodded again.

“‘The nail that sticks up gets hammered down,'” she said.

“What would they do?”

“They'd make me a belty.”

“A belty?”

“Somebody in a MoK collar.”

“A mock collar?”

“You saw that cleaner squirrel before? And you see that llama over there pruning the hedges?”

Patrick looked over at the creature. It was wearing a blue collar much like the sheep that had greeted him upon his arrival on Ith, or the animals Kempton had pointed out to him behind the grandstand at the school.

“
That
is a Mok collar. I'm going to guess you don't have them on Earth, either. It stands for Motor Operative Control. They use them to control your body from the neck down.”

“So, you mean—”

“You see how neatly trimmed the grass is? Or, thanks to our belty squirrel friends, how there's not a leaf or a speck of dirt on the mats? Or what a neat job that llama's doing on the bushes? You think if that llama weren't wearing a collar it would be all neat like that? Or do you think it would be choppy and it'd skip certain bushes altogether and wander over and poop in the sandbox sometimes, too?”

“Umm, choppy and the sandbox thing?” said Patrick.

“So, what happens if you get caught doing anything subversive is you end up in a work camp with one of those collars on your neck
for the rest of your life
. Belties. That's what they're called.”

“Wait, they do this to people—to human—”

“If I got caught even talking to you like this, they'd ship me off to a collar camp.”

Patrick shook his head not because he disagreed but because it felt as if his head were filling with a dark cloud and he was hoping to shake it out.

“Yeah. So, well, that's why we're here taking risks. We need to wake everybody up to this stuff.”

He found himself staring at the llama. He didn't have a lot of experience with llamas but it didn't look like a very happy one. There was something glassy and almost dead about its eyes.

“Seriously?” said Patrick. “They'd really put a collar on you and then they'd, like—”

“Control everything I do from the neck on down.”

“Not your head?”

“Apparently the mouth and tongue are extremely complicated to program. Which isn't to say the Deacons probably aren't working at it. Their technology just keeps getting better and better.”

Patrick felt a little panicky as he thought of a person—as he thought of Oma, actually—walking around unable to control her own body.

“So,” she continued. “Are you going to come along? I can't promise it's going to be easy. Or even safe. But there's so little time left.”

Her big eyes locked on Patrick's and he heard his heartbeat in his ears as he gazed back. There was an honesty and seriousness about her, a degree of—he didn't quite know what to call it,
realness
, maybe—that was unlike what he'd seen in anybody else he'd met in this dream. Except maybe also for that Skwurl girl from the locker room.

Kempton was clearly a confused kid. What Bostrel did and said seemed a little shifty. And that superattendant lady had definitely been a weird character.

And, besides—what was he going to do here? Go tattle on her and spend the rest of this dream hanging out with Kempton?

“Sure,” he said. “I'll go with you.”

Oma smiled with relief and her eyes—though dark as polished onyx—somehow brightened as she heard this. Patrick felt as if a marching band was warming up behind his ears.

“Looks like they're getting the grid back online. Quick,” she said, climbing off the bicycle and coming toward him, “let's fix your makeup.”

“What?”

“Your makeup is a mess and while personally I don't care how you want to look, it'll make for a good cover story for why it took us so long to get home: we stopped here so I could fix you up.”

“Oh,
did
we?” said Patrick.

She laughed and blushed a little herself as she came up to him.

Somehow seeing her like this, and the feeling of her standing close as she looked inside her makeup kit, made him for the first time really wish this weren't just a dream.

“So what time are we running away?”

“That's a funny way to talk about it,” she laughed. “This is serious business, Patrick!”

“Okay then,
seriously
,” he said. “What's the plan? You said we had to wait for this big storm Kempton's been talking about?”

“Exactly,” she said. “Yes, we're supposed to be picked up sometime before seven. So just go along like everything's normal, and don't be surprised by
any
thing, okay? Could be some weird stuff happening.”

“Like what?”

“Like you wouldn't believe me if I told you,” she said. “Now, sit still.”