The Incision of Being, page 18
He stopped his wheelchair and dug in his pocket for a coin to flip. He didn’t have one, so he pulled out his wallet and produced his Homeland identification card. Placing the card on the edge of his palm, he flicked it. The card flipped through the air and sailed a foot away from his chair to the ground, landing face-up.
“Homeland it is,” he muttered. But his gut said otherwise.
Laughter from across the room grabbed Ernest’s attention. A group of agents were occupying a table by the fruits and yogurt bar. They had the same haircuts—high-top buzzes for the men and tight ponytails for the women—and minimally varying forms of attire. It took Ernest a few seconds to notice Agent Welding among them. She was sitting on the far side of the table, her eyes locked with his. Even from this distance he could see that she was also having a lousy day.
Since when did she have an arm sling? Ernest wondered. He wanted to wheel his way over and ask her about it, but his damn card was on the floor. I could leave it, wheel myself through the front door and never see it again.
The agents on either side of Welding patted her back and she stood up. She shook her tray over the trash bin, made two coffees, and walked over.
“Dropped your card again?” she asked, handing Ernest a coffee along with his ID.
“Yep. Still haven’t gotten around to buying one of those retractable lanyards.” Ernest put the ID in his wallet. “Looks like you got in a scuffle.”
Welding nodded, an embarrassed smile pinching her lips.
“Can’t talk about it?” Ernest asked.
She shook her head. “There’s something we need to talk about, though. Come back to my room? Unless you’re getting food?”
“Nah, I just had to get away from the lab for a bit. I’ve been stuck in a bout of indecision,” Ernest said.
“Life wouldn’t be full of options if it weren’t for the forks in the road,” Welding said, but even as she said it, Ernest noticed the grim look in her eyes.
Ernest wheeled his chair back and motioned for Welding to take the lead. “Let’s go to your room, see if I can undo the knots in your mind.”
Visiting Agent Welding had become a source of clarity for Ernest. The ritual, initiated by Welding’s locking the door, followed by disrobing and climbing in bed with no words and quickening breath, had become so ingrained that a moment of confusion washed over Ernest as Welding shut the door, but didn’t lock it. She didn’t peel off any clothes, either, but instead lit a cigarette, an act usually reserved for the closing of the ritual.
“This must be serious,” Ernest said. “You’re not thinking about leaving, are you?” Warmth invaded his face as he realized he had projected his own dilemma.
Agent Welding didn’t notice the mishap. She watched the cherry burn on the tip of her cigarette and shook her head. “The idea of leaving has never crossed my mind, to be frank with you. I don’t know if it can.” She grimaced as she snuffed the cigarette out in the ashtray. From her bedside drawer, she took out a prescription pill bottle. “Will you take one of those out for me?” she asked, handing Ernest the bottle.
He did, and she returned the bottle to the drawer. “Something happened, and I think you want to tell me,” Ernest said. “I’m good at keeping secrets.”
Agent Welding smiled. It amazed Ernest how much her appearance had changed from the first day they met. Her teeth, tainted slightly yellow from nicotine, had become a source of infection that compelled Ernest to grin like a happy dog. Her off-center nose was no longer a mark of defeat, but of fortitude. And her hair, constantly untamed compared to the other women who readjusted their ponytails throughout the day, became a symbol of confidence. She had, effectively, subjectively, became beautiful in Ernest’s eyes.
She went to the bathroom to wash the pill down. When she came back, Ernest would divulge his decision to leave Homeland. His heart was with Agent Welding, but it wasn’t in the work, a void that eventually would grow big enough to consume them both.
The faucet squeaked off. Agent Welding took a deep breath. And said something so absurd it completely derailed Ernest’s train of thought. He had to backtrack and repeat her words. “What do you mean they’re dismissing you?”
She entered the room, a towel pressed to her face. When she lowered it, droplets of water still clung to her chin and the fringes of her cheeks. “I scored subpar on the psych evaluation, and the physical therapist is estimating a less than ninety percent return to pre-incident functionality.”
“That’s an excellent estimation,” Ernest said.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s not good enough. My own standard is ninety-five and up.”
“They can’t just toss you out, there’s a legal procedure,” Ernest said.
“I volunteered.” She lit another cigarette.
“What? Why? I know you enjoy the thrill of being in the field, but this is crazy. I mean, I didn’t mean crazy, but…suicide?”
Welding took a long drag and exhaled something comparable to a chimney. The stream of smoke became turbulent as she said, “Rebirth.”
Ernest settled himself in the bed next to her. “What happened out there?”
“I told you, it’s classified,” she said. “Don’t ask me again. Part of what makes me an eligible batch is my ability to follow protocol to a T. As long as I follow the ROE, I can sleep easily at night knowing I’ll be back if anything should happen. And something’s happened, Ernest, but I can’t tell you what it is or else I run the risk of not only being dismissed, but of having my batch dismissed as well. Do you understand?”
“Yeah, I think so,” Ernest said. “How many times have you been…reborn?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t want to. What I do know is that I’m one of the longest standing models in the building. And I intend to keep it that way.”
“You don’t remember anything from your other…”
“Lives,” Agent Welding said. “You can say it, that’s what I call them. I’m like a cat, but instead of nine I get nine to the ninth power.” She blew smoke at the ceiling. “Personal memories don’t carry over. I can tell you who my Mom and Dad are, they even provide tangible parental figures to boost cognitive stability, but organically formed relationships disappear. The past becomes heavier the longer you hold on to it.”
Ernest wasn’t very surprised to hear himself agree with her sentiment. He had been doing his best to maintain a smidgeon of the renowned reverence his family once possessed…and look where it got me.
What would happen if he “rebirthed?” Legs, for one thing. What about his sister? Would the controversy of mixing termite DNA with dogs finally fade into oblivion? Even if the criticisms continued to resurface, would it be correct to pin those shortcomings on the “new” Emily Emerson? It wouldn’t be the same person, after all.
And she wouldn’t be the same sister, the one I grew up with. Agent Welding may be okay with having a fabricated upbringing, but nothing beat the organic memories of sneaking up behind your sister as she watched TV to drop a piece of ice down the back of her shirt.
No, I wouldn’t rebirth if given the chance, Ernest decided. But he also refused to dwell in the past, and that’s what EGL was. The past.
“We finished the toxicant,” he said. “It’s ready.”
“No shit?” she asked.
“None.”
“Damn.” Agent Welding sat stunned for a few moments.
“This is good, right?” Ernest asked.
“What? Yeah.” She glanced at her injured shoulder. “I’m going to have to push back my dismissal date. I wonder if they’ll let me go down with them…probably not, too much of a liability.” She took one last drag before stubbing her cigarette. “You’ll be in the command center with me. I’ll make sure you’re granted access.”
“Are you giving me top security clearance, Agent?” Ernest asked in his most formal tone of voice.
Agent Welding smirked. “You better not fail to make me like you in my next life.” She got off the bed, walked to the door, and locked the deadbolt.
Chapter 19
Ernest had his doubts that Agent Welding could get him a spot in the command center during the sewer raids—a wishful idea engendered by excitement, he thought—but less than twenty-four hours later, a man wearing a beige uniform with golden stripes on the sleeves had come to the lab to solicit Ernest’s presence.
“Your subordinates have been denied access,” the man said after Ernest had inquired of Nita and Jake’s attendance.
“But they helped develop the toxicant,” Ernest argued. “Maybe even more so than me.”
The Lieutenant, as stated by the man’s nametag, consulted his tablet. “Is your name Doctor Ernest J. Emerson?”
“Yes,” Ernest said.
“And these two are Doctor Who and Doctor What?” the Lieutenant asked.
Ernest saw where the Lieutenant was going and decided to embrace his tactics. “Are you a doctor?”
“Yes, as is required of everyone attending the festivities taking place in the command center,” the Lieutenant said. He shook his head and left the room.
“It’s okay, Doctor Emerson, I’m not really interested in going, anyway,” Nita said. “Those things are nothing but tense shoulders and boiling tempers.”
“Yeah, I heard a story of some guy getting so worked up he popped a blood vessel in his eye,” Jake said.
“You should probably follow him before he gets too far,” Nita said.
“Do you want me to push you?” Jake asked.
Having never been inside the command center, or even outside its doors, Ernest let Jake push him up the ramp and out the laboratory. The Lieutenant was a foot away from turning the corner, and Ernest told Jake to double time it. An embarrassing ordeal, having to rely on someone else to get around.
But then they picked up enough speed for Ernest to feel the wind blow on his face. Had he ever traveled so fast in his wheelchair? Not that he could recall, nor could he recall a time when anybody else, except his sister, had lent a hand. And I scolded her for it.
“I’ll take it from here, Jake,” Ernest said as they caught up to the Lieutenant.
“Good luck. Don’t burst any blood vessels in there,” Jake said, and turned back for the lab.
The Lieutenant swiped his badge outside a pair of double doors. “Glad you could make it, Doctor.”
“If you’re free after the festivities, I invite you to come down to the lab for a personal demonstration of our toxicant,” Ernest said. “So far it hasn’t shown a bias toward gender or race, but we have yet to test it on assholes.”
“You may get your results quicker than you think,” the Lieutenant said, and entered the command center.
The room was oriented in the shape of a horseshoe. Around the edges were desks that overlooked an array of flat-screen TVs located near the middle. Beneath the TVs was a three-dimensional map of the underground sewers. Their gray tunnels snaked throughout the cityscape, and the buildings above ground were translucent. Blue circles along the streets marked manholes granting access to the sewers. There were other colors, too, but Ernest couldn’t interpret their meaning. Like the various nodes made up of six dots each, and the arbitrary red squares that were labeled code names such as “Liam,” “Dominic,” “Harbingers,” and “Yellowjackets,” among others.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Agent Welding said, pacing back and forth beside Ernest. She had relocated her firearm holster to the uninjured side of her body. “I’ve known a handful of defense contractors who refuse to watch the outcome of their creations.”
“I prefer to see every job through to its end,” Ernest said. His cheeks flushed as she nodded down at him, her eyes lingering on his thighs for a split second. “So, what exactly is going to happen?”
She checked her watch. “In thirty-seven minutes, our strike teams will breach and clear the sewer system. They have orders to plant thermal-actuated vapor mines at high-priority locations.”
“The red squares?” Ernest guessed.
“Affirmative.”
“And the mines are deterrents, right?” Ernest asked. “They’re not going to trap them down there and release the gas?”
“They’re for after the sweep,” Agent Welding said. “For anybody who returns underground after tonight. I need a cigarette. I’ll be back.”
“What are the strike teams’ orders?” Ernest asked, but Agent Welding was already out the door.
Somebody had occupied the desk in front of Ernest, blocking his view of the digital map. After wheeling himself to a new spot, he noticed that the TVs had come on. Their images displayed dark shades of soldiers in helmets and vests, wielding assault rifles.
“That’s five of six, Zulu,” a familiar voice said. “Get your last man up.”
Ernest wheeled himself next to an empty desk to get a glance at the Lieutenant, positioned near the digital map in the middle of the room. A few others of similar rank and dress stood around him, some watching the TVs as others talked into radios.
“Excuse me,” a woman said from behind. She gave a friendly smile and pointed to the desk Ernest was partially blocking.
He rolled himself to another vacant spot, and then again as someone else came to claim their desk. More TVs flickered on as the minutes ticked by. Ernest counted two screens for every strike team, which he had learned were the green nodes of six dots planted at various street corners on the digital map. There were eight teams total, named chronologically after the military alphabet starting with Sierra, through to Zulu.
Eight teams, sixteen monitors, and twenty-four high-priority locations, Emerson realized. His shoulders suddenly felt heavier. Twenty-four locations of possible death, thanks to my formula.
Ernest was about to leave the room when Agent Welding returned and ushered him to a spot in the far corner where he’d be out of everyone’s way.
“The wait is killing me,” she said, checking her watch. “Twenty-five minutes yet.”
◆◆◆
The Harbingers met traffic on the bridge. Robert kept the bus in the furthest-left lane to minimize their exposure. Annalease had carried Skink to the seat behind Robert and instructed the Gold to take the next seat back, which he did willingly enough.
“We are limiting our vision,” the Gold said. “Wouldn’t you rather see your enemy coming, than to travel blindfolded in hopes he doesn’t find you?”
“I’d rather no one find you,” Annalease said. “Not until we’re at the receiving facility.”
“He’s too heavy. We look like we’re about to flip over,” Robert said.
“Fine, we’ll sit on the right side,” Annalease said, carrying Skink to the seat across from the Gold. Skink had opened her eyes momentarily, and Annalease asked if she was feeling any better. But Skink only shook her head. She looked exhausted. Annalease was beginning to suspect that Skink had no intention of sleeping; she was keeping her eyes shut to block out the world.
Limiting her vision, Annalease thought. But we’re not the enemy. They are, the people in their cars surrounding us.
They made it off the bridge without incident and were soon driving along the freeway next to the city. Bright red and blue lights illuminated the tall buildings in the distance. Annalease should’ve noticed the difference in color scheme, but the advertisements were always changing shades, depending on whichever product was being pushed.
It wasn’t until they passed the digitized billboard with a man in military-grade uniform, his index finger pointed at the commuters with instructions to “Tune into station 97.1,” that Annalease realized something dangerous was taking place in the city.
Annalease turned on the radio and flipped to the station: “Unarmed and willing to cooperate. Negligence will be interpreted as a response of hostility. Please understand, citizens, that death and destruction is something we most avidly aim to avoid, yet it has risen drastically over the past few months. We are offering a peace treaty with everyone living on the fringes of society. Those who step forward will be granted immunity from death sentencing, and those who come bearing information will be protected from the retaliation of those condemned. We are in a state of emergency. Please, help us. We are offering asylum for all citizens living in the shadows. Step forward by midnight tonight, unarmed and willing to cooperate…”
Annalease turned off the radio.
“I don’t like it,” Robert said. “The timing. Us going there, with him…” he glanced up at the rearview mirror, undoubtedly looking at the Gold. “They’re running some scheme.”
“No, they’re threatened,” Annalease said. “Small hits carve the way, and we’ve been hitting them for years. The Hunting Grounds, the stolen mechanthrops, the threats. We’ve been chiseling and their foundation is finally giving way.” Even though she had encouraged a positive spin on the broadcaster’s message, Annalease noticed that Skink was peeking over the backrest of the seat in front of her, her wide eyes trained on the radio.
Skink sat down as Annalease approached her. It was clear she didn’t want to talk—she had closed her eyes—and Annalease found herself reluctant to ask Skink what she thought of the broadcast. Chances were slim she’d agree with Annalease and Robert’s interpretation. Don’t believe them, Skink, Annalease wanted to say. Their peace offering is bait and their protection is life in prison.
But she couldn’t say it in front of Robert. His method of protecting the Harbingers meant a lot worse.
Nobody on the roads took interest in the lopsided blue bus, and half an hour later they were at MR&H, riding down the same street they had months ago following a tip for a golden mechanthrop up for appropriation. Annalease had felt butterflies then, and she did again now.
If I knew then what I know now, we would’ve had the Gold take control of the city weeks ago, Annalease thought. Better late than never.
“Park on the grass over there,” Annalease said. “I don’t want to approach the guard shack in a junkyard bus.”
The brakes squealed as Robert slowed to a halt. He cut the engine and headlights. “We don’t have a plan. I was so preoccupied worrying about what to do if we got pulled over…”
