* * *
Theyre not coming out of it, Margery said. Were still getting traces like theyre up Country. Erwin grabbed his own wrist and chafed it, mumbling, then tapped the displays with three fingers. He bowed and shook his head. 1 dont know, he said. Ive never done this before. Weve never severed before. Is this the latency? Margery asked. Its been four minutes. I have no idea how long the processing lasts Burke said it could take minutes, even hours, Margery said. I hope to God it doesnt, Erwin said. took at Neumans traces. Shes diving below neutral sleep. I think shes pushing into deep dream sleep. Do you think Goldsmith did something to them? Margery
If I knew what was going on Id be a fapping genius, Erwin snapped. Lets try bringing them to consciousness.
| I can eat you as surely as Im standing here. Ive eaten the boy, the twins. Ive eaten your woman. She lives in my gut now. I can eat this Sir swept both arms at the California town. Martin glanced at the cold still image of his young fathera subpersonality, part of his own deep self regard. He loved that image and loved what it said about himselfthat no matter hOw much he had been compromised or how far he had strayed he still had this strength inside him. Sirs presence had frozen the image. Ice had built up on its face and hands. Martin returned his attention to the green wrinkled corpse of Sir. Youre way out of bounds, he said. You have no meaning here. Just a short step across a bridge, Sir said. I can live wherever Im invited. The image of Sir pulled back its upper lips and revealed sharp wolf teeth. The teeth lengthened into needlelike tusks. Corpse with fangs. Goes anywhere hes invited. Martin knew what he was looking at. He remembered the drunken sketch in the ceremonial copy of his atlas of the brain. The blood dripping fangs and the arrows pointing to several points in the olfactory centers and upper limbic system. He had been musing on vampires and werewolves, signs of deep contents welling up from the Country, where they represented routines connected with survival and violence. Complex of the hunter. The internal killer as old as spinal cords, linked to the scent, seeker after blood, master of fight or flight. In nightmares the dark dead beast rending and tearing, defending against all external forces but never itself alive or aware; voiceless, isolated, despised. In Emanuel Goldsmith that subroutine had taken the shape of Sir, the father, now linked with Colonel Sir John Yardley. It had moved up in rank from voiceless subroutine to mask of subpersonality to master of the Country, representative of Goldsmith himselfthe Mayor/King who had died. The dark dead beast had learned to talk. Now it stood in Martins Country where it had no right to be, as vile as any transmitted disease. Martin took one last look at the frozen sandy haired young man and turned to face Sir squarely. He raised his arms and clenched his fists. I Get the fuck away from me. If there was to be a war Martin thought he could at least give as good as he would get. If he did not purge this demon he could not guess what it might do to his psyche. This was a new game, a new war. It was fought on his own turf however, and he had one mighty weaponan awareness of where he was and what he was. I Im all over you, Sir said. There isnt a thing you can do. Martin lifted his hand and pointed his finger. From a distance he drew a trench in the pavement, the asphalt cracking and caving wherever he pointed. He circled the trench around and behind Sir. With an emphatic push of his palm against the air he forced a fire hydrant across the street to snap off. A tall white fountain of water shot up. Curling his finger, he directed the water to the trench. The fountain bent like a swaying tree, doubled over, splashed along the pavement and poured itself into the trench. The trench filled with muddy water. Sir stood encircled, blood on his neck glowing bright red against his dead skin, sightless eyes unperturbed. But Martin knew the power of his metaphorical plan in a place where metaphor and simile were all. Breaking the scent. If the dark beast could not cross running water, if it could not smell its way across, then it had no territory and no power. He was about to snap iron theftproof bars from nearby windows and make a cage, but the snakewhip came again from nowhere and fastened into his back, sinking its metal teeth deep, squeezing out a scream. It lifted Martin high above the town and held him there for the slightest moment; looking down, he saw Sir in the middle of the turbid waters, arms crossed, blind eyes staring at nothing in particular and everything. The fanged corpse stepped over the trench and laughed.
Martins screams filled the theater. He struggled to pull free of the straps and glared at Margery and Erwin as if they were monsters. Margery adjusted the settings on the couch to induce a state of calm but Martins traces were too strong. She could only slightly subdue his frenzy. Let me back! Hes still inside me! Oh, sweet God, let me go back! Erwin bent over Carol, adjusting her inducer controls, moving up and down the scales to no effect. She wont come out of it, he said. I cant send you back, Dr. Burke, Margery said. Tears ran down her cheeks. I dont even know where you were. She kept shooting desperate looks at the other couch. Martin twisted his head and saw Carol beside him. Her eyes were closed; she was lost in dreaming sleep. Whats wrong with her? he asked, still shaking but falling away from his own hysteria. I cant bring her up! Erwin shouted. He pounded the side of the couch with his hand, dipped his head and pushed away in frustration. She wont responcL Martin lay back, closed his eyes and flexed his wrists. He took a shuddering deep breath and looked inward, seeing only the blank dark wall between the conscious primary personality and what lay beneath. He opened his eyes again and began to cry. Untie me, he said between sobs, pulling against the restraints. Let me help.
But I see another law in my members, waiving against the law of my mind, and bringing me into captivity to the law of Sm which is in my members. The New Teslamen4 Romans 7:23
57
Richard Fettle felt as a mummy might, unwrapped from three thousand years of bandages. The actual smell of his malaise had passed away; he looked at the bright morning sunshine with a rapture he had not felt in decades. In his hand he held a flat picture of Gina and Dione. His fingers traced the contours of his wifes face. Gradually he moved the finger to his daughters face, then put the picture down on the table and leaned back against the couch. He heard Nadine stirring in the bedroom. Water ran in the bathroom. She emerged in a skewed robe, wearing a puzzled, irritated expression. She bad pulled her hair back and tied it into a bizarre six inch pillar on top of her head, a hair phallus. Richard smiled at her. Good morning, he said. She nodded abstractedly and blinked at the sunshine. Whats wrong? she asked him. You didnt sleep? I slept enough. Its late. I slept too long, she said. Im cranky. Have we eaten all the breakfast stuff? I dont know, Richard said. I could look. Never mind. She squinted at him suspiciously. Somethings wrong, isnt it? Tell me. Richard shook his head and smiled again. I feel much better. Better? And Id like to apologize. Youve really helped me. I had a dream last night. A very odd dream. Her suspicion deepened. Im glad youre feeling better, she said without conviction. Want some coffee? No, thanks. You really should eat, she said over her shoulder, padding into the kitchen. I know, Richard said. His rapture approached giddiness; he felt some concern that he might lose his sense of wellbeing and plunge back but the mood held steady. He stood and entered the kitchen, seeing as if for the first time the scuffed tile floor, the thickpainted wood cabinets and ancient plaster walls. Nadine peeled a tangerine by the sink and chewed each segment, staring thoughtfully Out the window. What about your dream? she asked. I dreamed about Emanuel, he said. Wonderful, she commented wryly. I remembered him doing a good thing, a very kind thing. I remembered him helping me after Gina and Dione died. Thats nice, Nadine said. The sharpness of her tone puzzled him. She flung the last of the rind and pith of the tangerine into the sink, gathered up her robe and confronted him. I try to help you and nothing happens. Then Goldsmith comes and its all right. Thanks a lot, Richard. Richards smile froze. I said youd helped me. I appreciate what youve done. I just had to work my way through some stupidities. He shook his head. I felt there was a string between Goldsmith and myself. I could feel him inside me. Im not sure if there was anything.. Her expression didnt change; a puzzled anger. But he isnt there now. Im not sure I believe in such things, but Goldsmith isnt anywhere nowI cant feel him at all. The Goldsmith I knew is dead, and that was the man I loved, the man who was good to me when things were very hard. I think he really is dead, Nadine. Richard shook his head, aware he was talking nonsense. She pushed past him. So I suppose youre all better now. No need for me. I can go away and youll get on with your life. She whirled and leaned forward, face screwed into a contemptuous mask. How many times did I ask you to make love to me? Four, five? And you refused. I suppose now that youre feeling better, youre up to some harmless thrusting, hm? Richard straightened, sobered by her reaction but with his inner joy still strong. Im feeling much better, yes. Well, thats wonderful, because I feel like a..." She thrust her fist up at the ceiling twice, could not find the word, spun on one foot and returned to the bathroom, slamming the door. Richard peeled another tangerine and stood by the kitchen window, inspecting each slice, savoring the sugar and tartness. He would not let Nadine spoil what he had found. When she came out of the bathroom she had dressed but none of her clothes seemed to fit properly. Her makeup caked her face, thickly and ineptly applied; she had attempted to accentuate puffy eyes swollen from crying and had succeeded in looking like a gargoyle. Im glad youre feeling better, she said, voice sweet, eyes avoiding him. She touched his shoulder and played with his collar. I can go now, cant I? If you wish, Richard said. Good. Im glad to have my freedom, by your kindness. She picked up her bag and walked quickly through the front door, closing it firmly behind. He listened to her footsteps down the walkway and stairs. + Where is he. Did he kill himself. Fly away to Hispaniola and commit suicide. Dont feel a trace. Richard shuddered. + Time to enjoy being alone.
58
Thousand flowers Prison spread like a concrete cow patty over low hills in a dry brown and gray inland canyon. Its gently rounded white terraces were blank but for the occasional vent cover, narrow window or gate. A dry asphalt road led up to the prison and circled it. Spaced through the hills were concrete blockhouses and towers commanding a view of every rock, bush, and gully throughout the valley. The walls of the canyon had been dug out to form vertical barriers. All around the canyon, on top of the walls and below, razor wire, steel spikes, and more blockhouses and towers completed the dismal prospect. With a fearful pride Soulavier pointed out each of these features to her from the high point where the single road entered the canyon. It is the most secure prison in North America, even more secure than others on Hispaniola, he said. We do not keep our people here. Only contract foreign prisoners. Its horrible, Mary said. Soulavier shrugged. If you believe there is redemption it may look horrible. Colonel Sir does not believe in redemption in this life. And he knows that for a society to stay healthy you must satisfy those who share such a view... Else they grow restless and take justice into their own hands. That is anarchy. He extended his arm: time to return to the car. She did so, and after a few words with the canyon gate guards Soulavier joined her. The car slowly descended. It took three minutes of conversation and confirmation for their car to pass through the prisons main gate. Inside, they stopped in a well lighted garage. Male and female guards surrounded the car, showing more curiosity than vigilance. When Soulavicr emerged, nodding and smiling, they wandered off, no longer interested. Not even Marys appearance attracted much notice. The guards passed them through corridor after corridor, door after solid blank door, until they stood in the western wing of the prison. Mary noticed there were no windows anywhere. The cool air carried a faint but constant odor of musty staleness, as of something old stored away and unused. Goldsmith is in this wing today. The wing is called Suitcase, Soulavier said. Punishment is carried out here. Mary nodded, still unsure she was prepared to see what she must see. Why do you call it Suitcase? Each part of the prison is named after something a man might use while on the outside. There is Hat section, Shoe section, Walking Stick, Cigarette, Gum, and Suitcase. The main corridor of Suitcase was illuminated at eight meter intervals by strong yellow lights. The guards appeared greenish, eyes and teeth glaring yellow. In a cramped office at the end of the main corridor Soulavier presented the chief of guards with a paper. The chief was slender, almost elfin, with curled ears and upturned eyes. He wore a gray uniform with a red belt and black slippers that made no noise as he crossed the office floor. He examined the paper solemnly, glanced at Mary, passed the paper to a subordinate and removed an oldstyle electronic key from a box hung on the wall behind and above the well organized desk. The inner sanctum of Suitcase was silent. No prisoners spoke. Few guards moved through the narrow halls between cells. Indeed, few of the cells were occupied; most of the doors stood open, revealing dark emptiness when they passed. Suitcase had a special purpose. At the end of one short hail, a chunky guard stood with arms crossed before a closed door. The chief brushed him aside with a paternal smile, unlocked the door and stood back. Soulavier entered first. From outside the chief switched on a light. Mary saw a black man strapped on a couch. Her eyes flicked immediately to the hellcrown cylinder bolted to a concrete pedestal beside the cot. Cables reached from the cylinder to the clamp, which encircled the mans head. The mans face was tense but otherwise he appeared to be asleep. Marys eyes widened. She examined the face carefully for what seemed like minutes. This isnt Emanuel Goldsmith, she concluded, her knees trembling. She turned on Soulavier, face twisted with indignation and rage. God damn you all, this is not Emanuel Goldsmith. Soulaviers expression went slack. He looked between the man on the couch and Mary, turned suddenly and confronted the chief of guards, speaking rapidly in Creole. The chief peered into the cell and defended himself vigorously in a high pitched voice. Soulavier continued to harangue him as they walked up the hail and around the corner. The guard outside the cell watched them leave, then peered into the cell in turn. He smiled in confusion at Mary and shut the door. Mercifully the light remained on. Mary stood beside the couch, looking at the clamped prisoner, unable to imagine what he was experiencing. His face did not betray pain. This was truly a private hell. How long had he been under the clamp? Minutes? Hours? She considered removing the clamp or shutting off the hellcrown but she was not familiar with the model. No control panel was visible. It might have been controlled remotely. The door opened. Soulavier squeezed through. This must be Goldsmith, he said. This is the man who arrived in the airport with Goldsmiths ticket and luggage. You are mistaken. Did Colonel Sir ever meet with this man? He did not, Soulavier said. Did anybody who knew Goldsmith meet with him? I do not know. She examined the face again and felt tears flow. Please take off the clamp. How long has he been here? Soulavier conferred with the chief. He says Goldsmith has been here for six hours in low level punishment. What is low level? Soulavier seemed puzzled by that question. I am not sure, Mademoiselle. How do you measure pain or suffering? Please remove the clamp. This is not Goldsmith. I beg you to take my word for it. Soulavier left the cell again and conferred with the chief for several endless minutes. The chief whistled sharply and said something to someone in the main corridor. Mary kneeled beside the couch. She felt she was in the presence of something both horrible and inexplicably holy: a human being who had suffered for hours under the clamp. Could Christ himself have suffered worse? She might heap all her sins, all the sins of all humanity, on this mans chest; he had suffered for hours. How many others were suffering, had suffered, in this prison, in the other prisons? She reached out to touch the mans face, her insides tight as steel, tears flowing down her cheeks, dripping to the white sheet on the couch. The prisoner bore some passing resemblance to Goldsmith. There were features that to an uncaring official eye might confirm identity; roughly the same age, perhaps a few years younger, high cheekbones, a generous well formed mouth. An elderly woman in a white lab coat entered the cell, gently pushed Mary aside and opened a small door in the side of the cylinder. Whistling tunelessly, the woman tapped a digital display, made some notes on a slate, compared readings, then turned a black knob counterclockwise. Rising again, shaking her head, she snicked the door shut and looked up blankly, expectantly at Soulavier. He will need time to recover, she said. A few hours. I will give him some medicine. You are certain this is not Emanuel Goldsmith? Soulavier asked Mary, glaring angrily. Im positive. The mulatto woman administered an injection in the prisoners arm and stood back. The prisoners features did not relax. If anything, away from the hellcrowns inducer, the face revealed more anguish, more tension. Seeing that the prisoner was not about to start thrashing around, the mulatto woman stepped up again and slipped the clamp from his head. He needs medical care, Mary said. Please take him out of here. We need a court judgment for that, Soulavier said. Was he put in here legally? Mary asked. I do not know how he was put in here, Soulavier admitted. Then in the name of simple human decency get him out of this cell and take him to a medical doctor. She stared at the mulatto woman, who looked away quickly and made a sign with j three fingers crossed over her left shoulder. A real doctor. U Soulavier shook his head and gazed at the ceiling. This is not a matter to call to the attention of Colonel Sir. His skin glistened in the yellow light though the cell and hail were not warm. Colonel Sir would have to order his release. Mary felt like screaming. Youre torturing an innocent man. Call Colonel Sir and tell him this immediately. Soulavier seemed paralyzed. He shook his head stubbornly. We need proof of your assertion, he said. Did he have ID papers, cards? Mary asked. Soulavier relayed her question to the chief, who lifted his shoulders eloquently; that was not his concern. The tension had reached her gut. She worked to calm herself, imagining a leisurely War Dance in a grassy field away from everything. Youd better kill me now, she said quietly, looking straight into Souiaviers eyes. She pointed to the prisoner. Youd better kill him, too. Because what you have done here is more evil than even the wicked nations of this Earth will stand. If you allow me to return to the USA alive, my story will certainly harm Colonel Sir, his government and Hispaniola. If you have any loyalty to your leader or your people you will release this man now. Soulaviers shoulders slumped. He rubbed his damp face with his hands. I did not expect an error, he said. He looked around the cell, eyes flicking over the details, moving his lips as if saying a silent prayer. I will order his removal. And I will take it on my own shoulders. Mary nodded, eyes still on his. Thank you, she said. She did not care how it was done, but she wondered if by her actions she had now condemned Soulavier himself to such a cell. In the main hallway, following the mulatto woman and two guards carrying the prisoner on a stretcher, with Soulavier following behind, Mary tried to control her nerves, her fear, her disgust. She could not. She began to tremble and had to stop and lean against a wail for support. Her horror at the helkrown had not diminished. Soulavier waited a few steps behind her, staring at the opposite wall, Adams apple rising and falling above his stiff white collar. The procession went before them, not looking back. Everything has meaning and has a place, Mademoiselle, he said. How can you live here knowing these things are made by your people? Mary asked. This is the first time I have been to Thousand Flowers or any prison, Soulavier said. My specialty is police diplomacy. But you knew. To know in the ..... . He did not finish. Mary pushed away from the wall and straightened with an effort. What will you do if Yardley disapproves? Soulavier shook his head sadly. You have made my life a shambles, Mademoiselle, he said. Whatever your purpose in coming here, that is the result. You can leave Hispaniola. I cannot. Ill never leave the memory of this, Mary said.