Shuteye for the Timebroker (23 page)

Not many minutes passed before the library door clicked open. Wheatstone shot quivering to his feet and found himself face to face with the president-for-life of Lincoln Island.

At age seventy-eight, Cyrus Smith still possessed all the charisma of his youth. His stern, bearded countenance radiated a patriarchal aura not unmixed with a sly humor. He smiled at Wheatstone and extended a hand.

“Come, come, Mr. Wheatstone, you’re not among ogres here. If at all possible, no harm will come to you. I think you’ll find us more than reasonable when it comes to straightening out this imbroglio you’ve stumbled into.”

“Sir, you have foisted an imposture upon the world!”

“Have I, Mr. Wheatstone? Yes, I suppose I have. But consider the benefits that have accrued thanks to my little charade. The living standards of much of the world’s population are higher than they’ve ever been before. Cowed by the weapons we have liberated from the
Nautilus
, the nations of the globe have learned to value diplomacy over aggression. The Sons of Ham are fully enfranchised and valued, both in North America and elsewhere. I venture to say that this version of 1898 is, on the whole, a more just and admirable one than any other merely hypothetical branch of history that would have resulted had Lincoln Island never existed.”

“But your paradise is balanced upon the tip of a needle! It takes all your efforts to keep it from toppling. And as Brown has revealed to me, you are soon to run out of strength.”

“Ah, poor Brown! We will see that he gets the kindly care and attention he needs to overcome his alcohol-sodden delusions. No one is going to harm him. He is one of us.”

“Are you claiming that his representation of the situation is incorrect?”

“No, not at all. But Harbert was not privy to our secret search, a quest that has now borne fruit.”

“What are you saying? Have you found a man to replace Nemo? Someone who blends his practical and theoretical skills? Someone to continue his researches, and stave off that day when science reaches its natural limits?”

“Indeed. You have a fine way with words, Mr. Wheatstone. I’m certain you will do justice to the exclusive interview we intend to grant you with our new savior.”

Exclusive interview? Wheatstone began to feel for the first time in hours that he might yet emerge from this deadly affair with both his hide and reputation intact—perhaps even enhanced.

“Would you care to meet him now?”

“Why, yes, if the hour is not too late.”

“Not at all. Our new comrade is almost superhuman in his endurance and vital spirits.”

Smith used an ordinator to issue his summons. Within a few minutes, a man strode boldly into the library. And what a figure of a man! Of middle height and geometric breadth, his figure was a regular trapezium, with the greatest of its parallel sides formed by the line of his shoulders. On this line attached by a robust neck there rose an enormous spheroidal head—the head of a bull, but a bull with an intelligent face. Eyes which at the least opposition would glow like coals of fire, and above them a permanent contraction of the superciliary muscle, an invariable sign of extreme energy. Short hair, slightly woolly, with metallic highlights; large chest rising and falling like a smith’s bellow; arms, hands, legs, and feet, all worthy of the trunk. No mustaches, no whiskers, but a large American goatee.

Even Cyrus Smith seemed to shrink a little in the presence of this newcomer, who remained ominously silent. But Smith soon recovered himself and said, “Mr. Wheatstone, may I present our new friend, Robur. With his aid, I believe we can conquer all such problems as our aerial delays at last. With Robur at our side, progress need never end.”

Wheatstone shook Robur’s hand and felt a galvanic charge.

The young reporter suspected that things were really going to get interesting now.

The protagonist of this story is me—to some degree.

Like most U.S. citizens, I was traumatized by the events of September 11, 2001. Nor have the subsequent years proven any more soothing or less ethically problematical.

I try my hardest to parse all the conflicting ideologies, assign all the correct moral shadings to all the actors in the global struggle, and extend compassion even to those trying to destroy all I love.

But you know what?

Sometimes, like Michael Valentine Smith, I’d like to have the power to just point my finger at someone and send them straight to hell.

Shadowboxer

Generally speaking, I need only three minutes of concentrated attention to kill someone by staring at them. If I’m feeling under the weather, or if my mind is preoccupied with other matters—you know how your mind can obsess about trivial things sometimes—it might take five minutes for my power to have its effect. On the other hand, if I focus intensely on my victim, I can get the job done in as little as ninety seconds.

Another factor determining the speediness of my powers is the constitution of my victim. As you might imagine, the elderly and frail and ailing require less effort to kill than the hale and hearty and young.

But no one is immune to my gaze. At least, no one I have yet encountered.

And I’ve encountered plenty.

* * *

Now the nation is at war. Or so we’re told. I guess that changes everything. A person like me becomes much more important.

* * *

Sometimes it feels like I’ve always lived in these few rooms. But I know I’ve been penned up here for only a couple of years. Still, that’s a long time to go without seeing another person, even for a loner like me. It’s a wonder I’m still sane.

If indeed I am.

* * *

The first time I got photos of kids as part of my killing assignment, I staged a strike for three days. I wouldn’t use my power at all. There was no punishment meted out by my unseen employers, no diminishment of my limited perks. I couldn’t figure out what their intentions were, how they hoped to coerce me. But then on the fourth day the media did their job for them. I read in
U.S. News and World Report
about a bus-bombing in Israel. Thirteen people killed and dozens wounded. The bomber had been a teenage girl. Her photo had been in the pile.

When they resubmitted the photos of the kids, minus the girl’s, I went straight to work on them.

***

I call all of the different guys who speak to me over the intercom connecting me with the outside world “Dave.” Occasionally, a woman is on duty, and I call her “Dave,” too. She’s fractionally nicer than the guys, in some indefinable sense, but still pretty blank. They refuse to tell me their real names, of course, or even to supply a friendly alias, so this is my countermeasure. I reduce them all to the same individual. They’re just following orders, I know, when they withhold their names. But still, you’d think they’d have some human feeling for their prisoner. I’m helping them, after all, aren’t I? Doing good for my country? I suppose everyone’s nervous about me taking some kind of revenge against any of my captors whose real name is revealed, if I ever escape. But they don’t have to worry about that. I haven’t killed anyone for personal reasons since I became a professional assassin. Killing someone with an emotional or personal connection to me was a sure way to get caught eventually, I believed. Therefore, I have learned to rein in my natural emotional reactions to insults and slights and aggression.

As an adult, committing murder with my peculiar talent meant money, not revenge. (Now, they tell me, my lethal actions mean the survival of Western civilization.) Killing randomly or for personal reasons would have violated my code of survival.

Having a code is important to me.

* * *

Sometimes I think about my parents. I was an only child, but they didn’t dote on me. I was just an accepted part of the household furnishings, like the couch or the television. They weren’t mean to me, just indifferent.

Maybe that treatment had something to do with how I am today.

Still, I never bore them any ill will, and certainly never thought once about using my power on them.

They’re still alive and well, as far as I know.

* * *

I don’t know where my current living quarters are located. Once I was kidnapped—by a squad of rough men in my darkened bedroom; I couldn’t see a thing—I was brought here drugged into unconsciousness. The place is a suite of five rooms, not spartan, not luxurious, but rather like the rooms in a decent chain hotel. There are no windows, naturally. Something about the atmosphere, the tasteless processed air, leads me to believe that I am deep underground, in some government bunker. The perfect silence contributes to that impression as well. Although for all I know, I could be on the fiftieth floor of some urban tower, immured behind yards of soundproofing. Or in a cabin in the middle of some federal wilderness area. Or on an abandoned oil platform out at sea.

I have a very nice bedroom, a living room, an exercise room, a kitchen, and a game room. The furniture is all quite comfortable. Oh, and of course a quite satisfactory bathroom. I guess that makes six rooms, but I don’t think the bathroom is conventionally counted in real estate descriptions.

The living room contains a TV, but the set receives no broadcast or cable channels. I can use it only with the attached DVD player or Xbox. I have a computer, but no Internet connection. I’m using that machine to keep this journal. The game room features a dartboard and a Ping-Pong table. Being alone, I don’t get much use out of the table tennis setup, but I’ve gotten pretty damn good with the darts.

The whole place is, I’m certain, wired to the max. Cameras and microphones record my every action around the clock. The tapes must be excruciatingly boring for any Dave delegated to monitor them.

When I’m not performing my assigned killings, all I do is lounge around trying to keep myself moderately entertained. I cook most of my own meals, using the kitchen and the supplies delivered while I am locked into my bedroom at specific times. (The intercom orders me to retreat to the bedroom, and the door is locked by remote control, a solenoid thunking the bolt home. I have never tried to see what would happen if I disobeyed.) I can order out if I want. The franchised pizza and fried chicken and tacos arrive hot and fresh, which I suppose eliminates the possibility that I’m held in some remote area. Unless of course they’ve gone to the trouble to duplicate the kitchens and staffs of those fast-food joints right outside my door so as to conceal any clues to my real whereabouts from me. I wouldn’t put that past them.

All I have to do to get these meals is ask politely over the intercom that connects me with my unseen captors. I can’t conduct frivolous conversations over that channel, but the Daves will attend to my legitimate requests. They’ll provide me with books and magazines, too.

No newspapers, though. The photos in newspapers are often too recent, and could be dangerous.

* * *

Of course you wonder about sex. I’m a normal guy in my early thirties, so I have the usual urges. I jerk off a lot in the dark. Maybe they’ve got infrared capabilities in their cameras and can see me. So what?

I’m only human, after all.

* * *

The way I was found out was this: Van Tranh had me do a job for a politician. Then news of my existence filtered into government circles, and my abduction was practically guaranteed.

I would still be free if only criminals knew about me.

* * *

My power manifested itself for the first time when I entered puberty. Just like Carrie, right?

I was a wimpy little kid, always getting picked on. Bullies seemed to gravitate toward me, happy and eager to punch the shit out of me. I never did anything to deserve their ire, except for existing. Just like I never did anything special to gain my power. In both cases, it’s just the fluky way the universe works. I understand and accept that completely.

So the year I was thirteen the particular bane of my schoolday existence was this porky six-footer named Tony Grasso. Tony had been held back more than once, and now stood out among the rest of his classmates like Andre the Giant among a reunion of Munchkin actors. The day I killed Tony, he had cornered me in the lavatory and given my head a thorough rinsing in the toilet, before laughingly departing with my new calculator in his pocket. I didn’t mind the dunking as much as I resented the loss of my calculator to such an oaf, especially since I was certain Tony would be unable even to find the on switch.

After I had cleaned myself up as best I could, I went to my next class, and there was Tony, leering at me and silently challenging me to rat him out. But of course I did no such thing. Instead, I took a seat as far away from him as I could, intending to focus on the class and enjoy the teaching. The class was math, and I liked it a lot.