Authors: Mark Souza
The giant rounded a corner and stopped in front of a single story brick building. Metal letters bolted into mortar spelled out LIBRARY. The giant opened the door for Moyer, then ducked his head and followed him inside.
Phalanxes of bookcases crowded the building, every shelf stuffed with books. He had never seen so many books in one place. It even dwarfed Higsby’s collection. Moyer couldn’t believe it.
The few books he had were left to him by his father, Steinbeck mostly, his father’s favorite author. On rare occasions Moyer bought books on the black market when he couldn’t bring himself to reread the ones he already had.
As the giant spoke, his words pinged off the walls. “The knowledge of the ancients is here. Information that can be found nowhere else, not even on the net. It is how we have survived here.”
Moyer reached out and pulled down the first book his hand touched.
One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest
, Ken Kesey. He opened the cover and checked the copyright, 1962 — so long ago. He glanced up at the giant, who smiled at him as if he was a child.
“Fiction,” the giant said, “You can keep that one.”
Moyer stacked it atop his
Bible
and tucked it tightly under his arm.
“You should be going,” the giant said. “The train will return soon. How did you plan to transport my DNA?”
Moyer faltered for a moment, unsure. He reached into his pocket and produced a clear vial. The giant took it from him and examined the stick protruding from an orange rubber stopper. Suspended inside was a cotton swab. “I was supposed to collect a sample of your saliva.”
“How were you to accomplish that?” the giant asked.
“I was to trick you into eating or drinking something and swab the cup or utensil when you weren’t watching or after you threw it away.”
The giant opened the test tube and ran the swab over the inside of his cheek. He reinserted the stopper and handed it back to Moyer. “Are you to be my Judas?”
Moyer didn’t understand. The giant reached out and tapped
The Bible
under his arm. “Read the Gospel of Matthew, and then do what you feel you must. Before you leave, I want you to understand something about Viktor Perko.” The giant gazed at him and asked, “Who released the genetic plague onto the world?”
“The Chinese.”
The giant’s brows raised quizzically, “Really?”
“It’s recorded history. Every schoolboy knows that.”
“Why would the Chinese release a pathogen they had no cure for?”
“They were losing the war and were desperate.”
“Is there a Chinese person left on Earth?”
“No.”
“Do you know where human cloning was perfected?” The giant asked.
“At Hogan-Perko Labs.”
“No,” the giant corrected. “Hogan-Perko stole the process from China. The Nanking Corporation was preparing to take their case to World Court when the war broke out.” The giant laid a yellowed copy of the New York Times on a table. A headline of a sidebar story read
World Court to rule on Nanking -vs- Hogan-Perko
. “The war started before the ruling came down. Where did the first missile land in China?”
“In the Chinese capital.”
“Actually, outside the capital. The blast was centered over the Nanking Corporation.”
“Are you saying the war was a ruse for Hogan-Perko to eliminate a rival? But the Chinese fired first. They vaporized WashingtonDC.”
“Did they? If the Chinese started a war, why fire only one missile? Ask yourself, who truly profited from the war, the destruction of the U.S. Government, and the release of the plague?”
Moyer’s eyes narrowed. When the tumblers in his mind clicked in place, he looked at the giant in disbelief. The big man smiled. “Peace be with you, brother. Enjoy the ride home.”
Chapter 25
T
he giant waved as the train pulled away from the station, his hood shading his fair skin from the last vestiges of sun. Moyer admired his new books. Light glinted off embossed gold lettering —
HOLY BIBLE
. He opened it and read.
In the beginning God created the heavens and the Earth
. The giant told him the sun would be down before the train made the solar collector field, so Moyer read in the light he had left to him, right up until the net started tickling at the background of his consciousness.
When Moyer arrived at the chain-link fence separating Labor Housing from the collector field, he opened his shirt and dropped the books down his pants against his stomach. During the ride home on the tube, he hunched forward in his seat so no one would notice, not that anyone paid him any attention. Most had the glazed eyes of net surfers.
Curious, Moyer entered the net himself and searched for
King James Bible
. An error message flashed. Next he queried on
Judas
. Again another error message. As Moyer snapped back to the reality of riding the tube, he wondered if someplace within Security Services an alarm had been triggered by his probing.
“What are you hiding?” a male voice said. Moyer snapped his head around toward the source, a teenage boy. “Where have you been?” the boy asked in a lyrical cadence. “You say you’ve done nothin’, but you look guilty as sin.”
Sweat beaded on Moyer’s skin. He noticed the boy’s glazed eyes and bobbing head. The kid was listening to music videos. Moyer checked to see if anyone else was watching. No one was.
The kid must have sensed Moyer’s eyes on him. He grinned and stuck out his tongue at Moyer. The kid had tinted his teeth brilliant blue and had his tongue dyed green and split lengthwise so it was forked like a snake’s.
Why did young people do such stupid things? But Moyer knew why. The kid was saying to the older generation
I am not like you and never will be
. Moyer almost laughed.
Never
would soon sneak up on the kid in a rush as it had for every previous generation. Moyer moved a few seats over to an empty row further down the car.
The air inside the apartment smelled of caramelized onion and cooked tomatoes. Moyer tugged out his shirttail and caught his
Bible
as it spilled out. He put it on the table. The vial containing the giant’s saliva he hid in the closet with the bomb and satchel.
“You’re late,” Robyn called from the kitchen. “I was beginning to worry.” She came into the living room wiping her hands on her apron, hair pulled neatly into a stubby ponytail. She studied Moyer, brows pinched. “What happened to you? You’re a wreck.” She swiped a finger across a stain on his shirt and brought it to her nose. “Is that dirt? Where have you been?”
“It’s a long story.”
She glanced down and spotted the books on the table. She lifted the Bible. “I see how it is. You tell me we have to cut back and then you buy books. How much?”
“It was free.”
“Right.” She turned it in her hands searching for a price tag and her eyes caught on the title. “No! Moyer Winfield, you get this out of here now. It’s contraband. If we get caught with it we could lose Jessica.”
“Honey, you are overreacting. Keep your voice down. No one will ever know about it.”
“We have a child now. I will not risk her for a stupid book.” He lifted
The Bible
from Robyn’s hand and slid it under the sofa. “No,” she yelled, “that’s not good enough. Incinerate it.”
“I will, I promise, but not tonight. Please get hold of yourself before you tip off the browsers and we really wind up in trouble,” he warned.
He held her and kissed her cheeks. “Shhh, it will be all right. I swear.”
Robyn jammed her fists into his chest and pushed away. She went into the kitchen cursing under her breath. Half an hour later she returned carrying two plates of lasagna, her face stern. Silence and the clink of forks on porcelain dominated most of the meal.
“How was work?” Moyer said.
She glanced up from her plate, “Boring. I clean apartments. What did you expect?”
“Who lives in apartment 1501?”
She looked at him queerly, “Who cares?”
“I do.”
“What is with you today?”
“Okay, I mentioned at Digi-Soft that you worked at the Capital Arms and a guy said someone important lives there. I didn’t think so because you never mentioned anything. I bet him that he was wrong. But now I can’t remember who he said it was.”
Robyn rolled her eyes. “1501 is some muckety-muck judge. Hawthorne, I think it is. He’s about a million years old and not home much. Is that the guy?”
“Yeah, I think that was it.”
“What did you lose?”
“Just a beer.” Moyer’s eyes grew still and void.
“What are you doing?” she asked
“I’m researching him on the net.” Images and articles flooded his mind. He scanned only headlines. A few seconds later he shook his head to clear his thoughts. “He’s a Supreme Court Justice, famous for defending privacy and individual rights.”
“That seems like a lot of work just to pay off a beer bet.”
“I was just curious.”
Monday, 2 July
Moyer spent more time with his eyes focused over the top of his cubical than on his computer monitor. When Petro walked by on his way to the incinerator, Moyer left his station and intercepted him, diverting him into the supply room.
“What’s going on, Moyer my man?” Petro asked.
“That’s what I’m asking you.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Hogan-Perko.”
“Oh, I heard your baby is close to decanting. Congratulations.”
“That’s not it and you know it. What did Viktor Perko make you do for your baby?”
Petro cast his eyes down, his lips tightened into a frown. “I tried to warn you,” he said, his voice barely audible.
“Not very hard.”
“What did you want me to do, Moyer?”
“Pull me aside like I’m doing with you now.”
“Well that didn’t happen, not that it would have done any good. Robyn was dead set on a baby and you were going to do whatever it took to get it for her. Listen, I’ve been there. I understand.”
“What did Perko have you do, Petro?”
“I bombed the HP South Gate branch.”
“What?”
Petro checked to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “You heard me,” he said in a harsh whisper.
“Why? It doesn’t make any sense?”
“I know, but it’s what he wanted, so I did it. What does it matter? What does he want from you?”
“He wants me to bomb a judge’s house.”
“If you are lucky, as in my case, no one will be hurt.”
Moyer cocked his head. “No one? Two hundred babies died.”
“They weren’t exactly alive. They had never breathed air, and Hogan-Perko made good. All those parents got replacement babies.”
“And that makes you feel better?”
“Why are you trying to rock the boat? Everyone wound up with what they wanted. Isn’t that the point?”
“How many of your test subjects died, Petro?”
Petro’s drew back and his forehead furrowed. “Eighteen,” he admitted.
“Over thirty-five percent. More than one in three,” Moyer said. “We need to stop this program from launching. We need to destroy it.” Moyer hated the mewling tone of his voice. “To do it I’m going to need your help.”
Petro nodded. The gesture was noncommittal, more an acknowledgement that he had heard Moyer rather than agreed with him. “Yeah, I guess you haven’t heard,” Petro said, “I’ve been given a temporary promotion to head the Worm Project. If it launches on time, the promotion becomes permanent.”
“What?”
“You shouldn’t have skipped work yesterday, Moyer my man. Berman was here and that was the last straw with him.”
Moyer stood stunned. Was Petro lying, or had Moyer been demoted and not told? Something inside him knew it was true, that he was now on the outside looking in, and not by a little, but almost out of the building. He shook his head to regain his focus. Even if he’d been demoted, he still needed Petro’s help. “The Worm kills people, Petro.”
“Deviant people,” Petro replied. “Berman and I have talked about this and it makes sense. We plan to retest on a random sample taken from the public at large — if there’s time.”
When Moyer didn’t respond and the silence grew awkward, Petro leaned closed and said, “You worry too much, Moyer. Out of friendship, I’ll pretend this conversation never took place and won’t say anything to Berman. But you really need to hop on the company bandwagon and play along.”
Moyer wondered if he could believe a word that came out of Petro’s mouth. Petro left the storage room and returned to his chair. Moyer waited so it wouldn’t appear as though he and Petro had been conspiring. When he checked the production status board, he was showing red — his second red of the quarter.
Just before lunch, Louis Berman pulled Moyer aside. Berman wore an expression of concern, but Moyer detected glee emanating from his eyes.
“Is something going on with you, Winfield?”
“No, sir. I’m fine.”
“That’s not what the metrics say.”
“Sir?”
“Look at that board — two reds this quarter. And you didn’t show up Sunday for the overtime you promised to work. What am I supposed to think? You are the project lead and are supposed to set the example. The project is still behind with only twenty-nine days to deadline, and I don’t know if I can rely on you. I should put you on report. It’s not something I relish doing, but we all have quotas to meet. Am I clear?”
“Yes sir.” Moyer understood the threat. Just once on report authorized rehabilitation — a punishment Berman had no qualms doling out. But by the same token, Berman had identified him as the project lead, the man to set the tone. Petro had lied.
“Petro and I were talking,” Berman continued. “He and I both feel you have been under a great deal of stress lately, what with the Worm deadline and a baby on the way. We feel it best for all involved if you were moved onto a different project, something less demanding.”
Berman strolled toward his office. Moyer glared at Petro. The little affable Brazilian who claimed to be his friend had deftly stabbed him in the back, using the birth of his daughter to do it, and had successfully thrown him off the project. His career was now swirling near the bottom of the toilet. Sasaki stared at Moyer vacantly. Moyer wondered if he’d overheard, and if he had, would he have the wherewithal to understand what had just happened? Moyer snorted sardonically when it dawned on him that he and Sasaki were now on the same career path.