What
any living thing in her place would have done after seeing those
eyes.
THE
image
had been processed. The computer asked her if she wanted to upload
it. Trying to contain her anxiety, Elisa hit ENTER.
After
one flickering instant, the screen blinked and turned a pale pink,
showing what looked like a blurry photograph of the control room. She
had no trouble identifying the shiny accelerator in the background
and the two computers in the foreground. Something had changed,
though with such poor definition she took a second to realize what it
was. There was another light source; a flashlight by the computer on
the right was shining. In its glow, she could see a smudge seated in
the same place she was.
She
couldn't breathe. Something in her mind cracked and a torrent of
memories came pouring out. Ten years later, she was seeing him again.
The poor quality of the image left a lot to her imagination. She
reconstructed his bony back and big, pointy head. Everything was
jagged because of the Planck time; she needed better resolution to be
able to make out who it really was.
Ric
Valente stared at the computer screen, with no clue that ten years
later
she'd
be
watching
him
on
the same screen. He was alone, and thought he would be forever.
Once
she'd recovered from the shock, Elisa hunched over the screen almost
the same as Valente, both surveying the past, peeking into history's
keyhole, spying like indiscreet butlers.
What's
he looking at? What is he doing?
The
lights on the control panel where Ric sat told her that he, too, had
just opened several time strings and was contemplating the results.
The camera angle let her see the screen Ric was looking at, but his
silhouette blocked the images on it. I
wouldn't
be able to make anything out even if he moved,
she
thought. I
need
the profiles.
Something
about that image intrigued her. What was it? Why did she suddenly
feel so ill at ease?
The
more she looked at it, the more sure she was that something wasn't
right. There was something hidden, or maybe it was obvious, like
those games in which you have to find ten differences between two
pictures. She tried to concentrate.
When
the image skipped to another time string, she jumped. Now Ric had
moved to the left, but everything was still very fuzzily outlined
and, as she'd suspected, she couldn't even hazard a guess as to what
he'd been looking at, despite an unblocked view of Ric's screen. It
was just a big sepia blur.
That
must be Zig Zag, but I need to profile it and zoom in.
There
was someone else beside Ric now. Though she could see only part of
the face and body, she recognized Rosalyn Reiter. That must have been
when poor Rosalyn snuck up on him. He was probably trying to explain
what he was doing there. That string was from an infinitesimal
fraction of time, two seconds before the blackout. It was less than a
millisecond long, at 4:10:10. Rosalyn was nowhere near the generator.
How had she managed to get inside the generator room and be
electrocuted in less than two seconds? It had all happened during the
attack, and she was starting to see how it could have come about.
But
there was still some tiny detail she couldn't put her finger on that
made her uneasy. What was it?
That
was the last time string. Before she forgot, she typed in a command
string and began profiling, programming the computer to keep working
after it had been shut down.
Suddenly,
something struck her. Neither Ric nor Rosalyn had shadows. She knew
that Rosalyn was dead and therefore she couldn't have split. But what
about Ric? Did that mean he was dead, too?
As
she sat there, pondering the possibility, she felt another, more
intense anxiety.
Turning
her head, she looked back at the camera.
The
control room was dark. The pinkish phosphorescence on the screen cast
the only light, and its glow went no more than six feet. Following
Blanes's instructions, she'd disconnected the accelerator an hour ago
and unplugged the other computers and components. Her watch battery
was sitting on the table (though she knew from the computer screen
that it was almost midnight). Outside, the storm still raged. She
felt its fury through the walls, and water crashed ceaselessly
against the windows.
She
couldn't see anything strange. Just shadows. But Elisa felt
increasingly apprehensive.
Over
the past ten years, she'd grown used to that feeling; it had marked
her, as though each night she survived branded her skin with a
red-hot poker.
She
was sure of it.
He
was
in there.
She
felt him so close, so near her body, that for a split second she
actually reproached herself for not being prepared to receive him.
Fear sat like a rock in her chest. She stood, stumbled, and felt her
hair stand on end.
And
then it was over. She thought she could hear shouting—Carter's
voice—and footsteps running through the barracks, but there was
no one in the control room.
When
she turned her head, she saw her friend standing before her, behind
the computer, illuminated in its glow. Her naked body looked rubbery,
sticky, like an unfinished sculpture, just a clump of shapeless,
ordinary clay. The only distinguishable feature was her mouth, which
was huge, black, and dislocated. Elisa's whole hand would have fit
between those jaws, even with her fingers spread wide. She had no
idea how she even recognized her.
And
then Jacqueline Clissot began to disintegrate before her eyes.
32
THE
pain
was unbearable. She woke, and moaned. She'd been laying facedown on
dust-covered box springs with no mattress, and the hard wires had
left grooves on her face. She couldn't remember where she was or what
she was doing there, and staring up at faces without features and
shiny eyes didn't help. A pair of hands yanked her up mercilessly.
She asked to go to the bathroom, but only when she spoke in English
did they stop tugging her in one direction and start shoving her the
opposite way. After a brief, unpleasant visit to the toilet (no
paper, no water), she felt able to at least walk on her own. But the
hands (masked soldiers, she could see them now) grabbed her by the
arms once more.
HARRISON
had
never liked islands.
A
lot of mistakes had been made on those lumps of land, geological
glitches just sitting there waiting for man's exploitation. Those
lonely gardens, hidden from the eyes of the gods, were ideal for
breaking rules, transgressing norms, and offending creation. Eve was
the first to blame. But now it was time to pay for that ancient
crime. Eve, Jacqueline Clissot: it didn't really make a difference.
The serpent had turned into a dragon.
It
was almost nine in the morning on Sunday, March 15, and a heavy sheet
of rain still fell on the damn island. The palm trees lining the
beach quivered like feather dusters held by an uptight servant. The
heat and humidity got into Harrison's nose, and one of the first
orders he'd given had been to turn on the air-conditioning. He'd
catch cold, of course, because his clothes were still drenched from
their landing eight hours earlier, but that was the least of his
worries.
Staring
out at that setting, hands in his pockets, thinking about islands,
sins, and dead Eves, Harrison said, "The two men who went into
the screening room had to be sedated. They're tough soldiers, they've
seen it all... So why is
this
so
out of the ordinary, Professor?" He turned to Blanes, who sat at
the dusty table. His head still bowed, he hadn't touched the water
Harrison had brought him. "It's more than a mutilated corpse,
isn't it? More than dried blood on the walls and ceiling..."
"It's
the Impact," Blanes said in the blank, empty voice he'd used to
respond to all of the previous questions. "Zig Zag's crimes are
like images from the past. They produce Impact."
For
a second, all Harrison did was nod. "I see." He left his
post by the window and paced the dining room again. "And that...
can ... transform people?"
"What
do you mean?"
"Well..."
Harrison moved only those muscles absolutely required to engage his
voice. His face was like a powdered mask. "Can it make people
do, or think, strange things?"
"I
suppose so. In some way, Zig Zag's conscience contaminates all of us,
because it becomes intertwined with our present..."
Contaminates
us.
Harrison
didn't want to look at Elisa sitting there, panting like a wild
animal, her sweaty shirt plastered to her torso, shorts cut off
almost at the crotch, tan skin glistening with an oily slick of
perspiration, jet-black hair tangled.
He
didn't want to look at her, because he didn't want to lose control.
It was very simple. If he looked at her too long, or long enough,
he'd do something. Anything. And he didn't want to do anything. At
least not yet. He had to be prudent.
As
long as the professor was still useful to him, he'd keep his cool.
"Let's
go over the story again, Professor." He rubbed his eyes. "From
the top. You were alone in the screening room..."
"I'd
fallen asleep, but the sparks woke me up. They were shooting out of
all of the plugs and sockets: the console, the light switches ... And
it was happening in the labs, too..."
"Did
you see it in the kitchen?" Harrison leaned out the door and
made a face at the burned smell. "The insulation is singed, and
the cords are completely scorched. How could that have happened?"
"Zig
Zag did it. This is something new. He must have ... learned how to
suck energy even from components that aren't plugged in."
Harrison
stroked his chin as he gazed at the scientist. He needed a shave. A
nice shower to bring him back from the dead. A long sleep in a decent
bed. But he wasn't going to get any of that.
"Go
on, Professor."
The
wasp. The main thing is to kill that wasp buzzing in your thoughts.
"I
could see by the light of the sparks ... I don't know how I even knew
that
thing
was
Jacqueline... I vomited. And then I began to shout."
The
dining-room door opened, interrupting them. Victor walked in,
escorted by a soldier. He was as dirty as everyone else,
bare-chested, with his shirt tied around his waist. His face was
swollen with lack of sleep and the two or three smacks Carter had
dealt him. Just the sight of him made Harrison slightly nauseous: his
sickly pallor, lack of chest hair, old-fashioned glasses ...
Everything about him made Harrison think of maggots, or gangly
tadpoles. And to top it all off, he'd pissed in his pants when he
walked into the screening room. You could see the wet spot spread
down his inner pant leg. Harrison smiled, determined to put up with
Mr. Maggot.