For the First Time, Again, page 8
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Kish was playing with a wooden doll when she heard noises coming from the street. The four-year-old was used to playing on her own. She was stronger than other children her age and control was a skill she was still acquiring. She had broken her best friend’s nose in a bout of unbridled enthusiasm and had no second-best friend to take her place. She spent her days playing the Game of Ur against herself, or with the wooden figures Nabûa carved for her. An argument in front of her house was as much excitement as she could hope for that afternoon and she moved to a better listening post near the front door. Her heart stopped when she recognized her mother’s voice and realized this was more than a shouting match over the price of bread. What came next would remain a blur in Kish’s mind. Her mother lying on the ground in a red circle. Her father crying and begging the gods’ mercy. A pale-skinned man staring down at her.
When Tereshiin saw the little girl, he knew exactly what he was looking at. He’d once had to execute his best friend (an admittedly low threshold to reach) because of someone like her. Several species coexisted on his home world, workers brought in to work the mines. Some species were sexually compatible; some simply could not procreate. Rare combinations, however, produced this very kind of abomination. The cells recognized the other species’s genetic material as foreign. Spindle fibers formed around one parent’s chromosomes just before meiosis, forcing the other parent’s outside the nucleus and into the cytoplasm. The result, if it made it to term, was an exact copy of the parent with the dominant genes, what his people called a “soul stealer.” Birthing one was a crime punishable by death and what remorse Tereshiin felt for striking his superior vanished into the evening air. If Sereh ever had a soul, her child was now the one carrying it. Tereshiin fought his way out of Arbailu, his sword in one hand and a screaming and kicking Kish in the other.
ACT III
18
The Facts of Life
They gave me a sedative right in front of Macy’s. Two guys wearing camouflage dragged me through the mall and took me … somewhere in the back of a van. Then it’s a bit fuzzy.… I remember waking up on a plane with no seats. We all sat on a long bench, like in a baseball dugout, strapped to the wall. I think I threw up, or maybe I dreamed I threw up, but that’s a weird dream to have, so I probably threw up. Back of a van again. There was a smaller plane. That one had seats. Then I fell asleep for real.
I woke up here with a headache the size of Texas. It ain’t jail, so I’m pretty sure I’m at Walter Reed. Whatever this place is, I’m in the basement. Cement floor, concrete walls, and damp like a locker room. There’s a fan in the corner, but it just moves the smell around. This must have been a storage space before they turned it into the fake kid room from hell. “We’ll take good care of you, Aster.” I guess that’s what he meant. They painted the walls pink. Light pink, like Barbie’s van if you left it in the sun too long. They were in a hurry. It’s the most half-assed paint job I ever seen. They dropped a shaggy white carpet right on the cement floor and put a hospital bed on top. They dressed it up so it kinda looks like a regular bed. Pink comforter, pink pillows. There’s half a dozen Backstreet Boys posters on the walls. Oh no, this one’s NSYNC. The curtains are a nice touch. There ain’t no window, just the curtains with more pink concrete behind. I guess they didn’t have time to paint the bookshelf pink. It’s still hospital brown, with exactly three books in it. Girl Talk: Welcome to Junior High! and … two more Girl Talk. It’s like the whole room came as a kit from the twelve-year-old girl store. This has to be the creepiest place I seen.
The door locks from the outside, of course, but it ain’t being locked up that scares me; it’s being locked up in a basement with no windows. That ain’t for me; it’s for everyone else. They want to make sure no one knows I’m here. Okay, I might have watched too many movies, but the whole thing screams evil government project. Bruce Willis will say I’m imagining things, but normal people don’t hide children in basements if they’re not doing anything wrong. I didn’t get any food, so at least I know they’re not fattening me up to make a dress out of me like in Silence of the Lambs. I suppose governments don’t do that, only psychopaths. I could be wrong, though. I think they can be just as bad, except only from nine to five.
It’s 9:02. If I’m right, it’s only a matter of time before the colonel shows up. Coffee first, maybe, then he’ll come in and tell me how completely screwed I am. I deserve it, I guess. I had some superweird dream last night. Freddie Freeman was following me around, shadowing me. Dead Freddie Freeman, of course, all chalky with a big gash on his neck. He walked like an inch behind, whispering in my ear: “You did this to me, Aster.” I went everywhere with him. I was back at school with Freddie sitting next to me. I was at the mall, the ice-cream shop, always with Freddie. “You did this to me, Aster.” I can hear him now, almost. I wasn’t scared of him—that’s the weird part—like I got used to having him around. I hope it was the sedative. I don’t want to live with Freddie Freeman.
Someone’s coming. Here we go. It ain’t Bruce Willis, though; it’s a boy. A … movie boy. A very hot, wavy-blond-quiff, school-captain-star-quarterback-looking boy. The kind that never, ever talks to the likes of me. He’s a bit older than me. Fifteen, maybe. Big smile, even bigger dimples. Teeth so white you got to wear shades. I used to dream of boys like that. I dreamed I was different, different looking, different everything, the type of girl boys like that would come and talk to. An Amanda. I wanted to be an Amanda so bad. Beckett in Can’t Hardly Wait. Jones in that old one they keep rerunning on TV.
—Hi! You’re Aster, right? I’m Charlie.
—Hi?
—I got you something.
He brought cake. The quarterback brought me cake. I took it. I can’t say no to cake, not when it’s chocolate with chocolate frosting. Still, this is weird.
—I’m sorry. Who are you?
—Charlie! My dad works here. He said you were alone and I should come and say hi. Happy New Year, by the way!
—That’s today?
I guess that explains the cake. It doesn’t explain why he’s the one bringing it.
—You didn’t know? Yeah! It’s the millennium!
—Actually, the millennium starts next year. This is just the zeroes.
—Well, happy zeroes, then. Is that a Game Boy Color? What games do you have? Whoa. Mortal Kombat. Who do you play? I like Sub-Zero.
—Kitana.
—Nice! Listen, my dad said they want you to take an MRI this morning, but I could come back later if you want.
—What’s an MRI?
—It’s like a big camera. It doesn’t hurt; you’ll see. It’s just really loud.
—Are you sure?
—Positive. Hey, you know what? There’s a TV and a Nintendo 64 in the break room upstairs. No one ever uses it. I can ask my dad to bring it down here. We could play games together. I know we just met, but it could be fun. What do you think?
What do I think? Do I want to play Nintendo with the quarterback? I could. I could spend my days getting poked and probed—oh, this is good cake—but I’d get to come back to my fake room every night. I could change the posters. I could play video games with boy jock here. Maybe he really likes me. Maybe he doesn’t, but give it enough time … I’d like him, that’s for sure. Not because of anything he’d say or do; he’d be the only person I ever talk to. Budding romance in Washington. I’d be his secret girlfriend ’cause no one would know I exist. He could have another one, a real one. I wouldn’t mind much. It’d be weird at first, but it doesn’t take long before anything becomes normal. “You’ll feel at home with us in no time; you’ll see.” It’s true. I could get used to this. I was getting used to being on the run and writing on people’s shirts. I could be happy here even. It’s not like I had much of a social life to begin with. Pa said most things are attitude. Mowing the lawn sucks because you think it does, but if you tell yourself it’s a race or a game it becomes fun. I just need to tell myself, This, right here … This is my life.
Or …
—Charlie?
—Yes?
—Don’t show your face here again or I’m going to hurt you.
19
The Mess We’re In
—That wasn’t very nice, Aster.
He’s laughing. He was more serious the first time, Fifth Element Bruce Willis, Armageddon even. He’s going for funny Die Hard now, but it ain’t working. It’s the uniform, I think. Or the bolt lock on the door, or the pink concrete. I’m kind of mad. I was scared before—I’m still scared—but I’m mad now.
—I’m sorry, sir, but …
—You can say it.
—With … all due respect, what ain’t nice is kidnapping people at the mall. What ain’t nice is keeping someone locked up in a basement and sending some boy to pretend he likes me.… That ain’t nice. You don’t lie to people like that. You just don’t. Does his dad really work here? I bet he doesn’t. I bet his name ain’t even Charlie.…
—The truth, then. He’s a child actor, not a really good one it seems. We thought it would be easier for you to accept your new life if information came from someone closer to your age, someone you trust. That was a mistake and I’m sorry. That said, I have no idea what his name is. It could very well be Charlie. For what it’s worth, he said he thought you were “kind of cool” before you threatened him, so it wasn’t all lies.
—Was he telling the truth about the MRI thing? He said it wouldn’t hurt.
—It doesn’t. It’s a noninvasive procedure. Think of it as taking pictures. All you need to do is remain still.
—Like a photo booth?
—I suppose so, except horizontal, and more noisy.
—Okay.… I thought you were going to draw my blood. I don’t like needles.
—We don’t need blood for now. I wanted some of your blood because there’s something very special about it—you remember what I said about your test results when we first met? Since then, however, we found a dead woman on the highway in Texas and her blood test came back the same as yours. Identical! Unbelievable, isn’t it?
—Does that mean you don’t need me anymore?
—Oh, but we do. We’re going to take a look at your brain first; that’s what the MRI is for. We’ll take pictures and see if there is anything unique about it. We can’t get them from the woman on the highway because, well, because she’s dead and missing a large portion of her head. I’m sorry; that’s a very morbid conversation to have on your first day. What I meant to say is there’s no need to worry about the procedures, Aster. No one here is going to hurt you. What I really need now is for you to answer some questions. Can you do that?
—I don’t know anything, sir.
—Are you certain? Because when we interviewed the people who were present on the highway, they all said that the FBI agents who were present that night had just removed a young girl, a young woman, from a car. We showed them your picture in a photo array—you know what a photo array is, I’m sure—and they all picked the same picture. Can you guess whose it was?
Crud.
—Who? Me?
—Yes, you. So you see how we might find it intriguing that two people with the same very unique blood anomaly—something we’ve never ever seen before—just happened to be in the same place at the same time. Did I mention that woman had two hearts? I know. That’s very strange, to put it mildly.
I’m so busted. I don’t know how that could be, because I ain’t done anything. I was there, that’s all. I shouldn’t get in trouble just for being someplace. Also, I don’t like this two-hearts thing at all. Gigantic mass murderer with a gun is one thing, but two hearts means Samael was telling the truth about that woman and if he was telling the truth about her then there’s a good chance he was telling the truth about everything and if he was telling the truth about everything, then … Whoa. Deep breath. One thing at a time.
—I don’t know what to say, sir. I don’t have two hearts.
—No, Aster, you don’t.
—Then you see, we’re not the same at all! I told you. I don’t know—
—There is also the murder case we need to discuss.
Freddie Freeman. I knew it. I watched enough cop shows to know how the rest of this conversation goes. It starts with personal questions, what food I like, what sports I’m playing. Then he asks what I was doing that night and I say the wrong thing, like, “I was at soccer practice,” but I already said I don’t like soccer. Next thing you know I’m wearing an orange jumpsuit, standing in front of a judge who hates me. “In the cruel and ruthless murder of one Freddie Freeman, whom everyone loved, especially that little girl in the picture, how do you plea?” Guilty, Your Honor. “You did this to me, Aster.” Yes, Freddie. I know.… But how do they know? Sam called the cops, but even if they found the body, I don’t think anyone saw me there that night. Maybe there were cameras. Maybe they found a hair, weird DNA floating around. It’s like Gattaca; they know everything. All I can do now is pretend I have no idea what he’s talking about, but he won’t believe me. No one will.
—I’m sorry, sir. What murder?
That was so not convincing.
—You were there, Aster.… Nine FBI agents were murdered in cold blood that night. These people had families; some had children your age. Their wives, their husbands, their children deserve some answers, don’t you think?
Phew. For a minute there I thought— Wait. Are they blaming me for this? Do they think I was in cahoots with that woman just because we both have weird blood? Like, she’s eight foot tall and she has two hearts. This is bad, like bad bad. I ain’t no lawyer, but I’m pretty sure killing nine federal agents gets you the chair, or nine billion years in jail. I can’t lie about this. They know I was there. I might as well come clean. Pa always said I should just tell the truth if I got in trouble. Plus this is like the one thing I can tell the truth about.
—I don’t know what to tell you. That lady came out of nowhere and she started shooting. That’s all I know; I swear! I never seen her before, not ever!
—Did she say anything before she started shooting?
—No, sir. After.
—What did she say?
—I’m not sure. It sounded like … “Shyeh-shyeh-shyeh.”
—What?
—That’s what she said! “Shyeh-shyeh … shyeh,” or something. I thought she was Russian.
—That doesn’t sound Russian at all.
—If you say so. I don’t speak Russian.
20
Daughter
I found it prudent to relocate after what happened to Aster. I thought Las Vegas was busy enough, but the authorities managed to track her within days. As for the hunters, I still have no idea how they found me, or Aster, in the first place. I can only assume there is something unique about us they can detect from a distance, a relatively short distance, I would guess, or they would have caught up to me by now. Nonetheless, I should probably not stay in one place for more than a week. Chicago seemed like a logical choice, far from my last location and large enough to hide in should my kind succeed in tracking my movements. I got a room downtown at the Palmer House, dropped my bags, and went back out to familiarize myself with the surroundings. The bellboy suggested I take a walking tour with the Architecture Foundation. I never had an interest in architecture—I never had much interest in anything now that I think about it—but I returned from the outing holding two intimidatingly large books on the subject. I was rather pleased with myself. It felt really … human. I sat in bed and opened one of the books. I was exactly thirty-nine words in when I reached not one, but two, conclusions. One: I have no interest in architecture whatsoever. Two: this was a blatant, not particularly subconscious attempt at ignoring the obvious.
I find myself … troubled—not by the constant threat of death, but from unwanted reminiscence. As much as I found her irritating, I had, it would seem, grown accustomed to Aster’s presence in the short time we had been together. I daresay I developed a certain fondness for her. That realization came as both a surprise and an encumbrance. I never owned a pet—Father would never allow it—but I have heard people describe the emptiness of their home when their cat passed away and I feel an ounce of empathy I did not feel before. Perhaps it is the cat I am missing. Perhaps not. It and I were not of like mind. It escaped the moment I returned to our room after Aster was captured and I lacked the motivation to chase after it. I think it was a relief for both of us, and there are worse places to be a stray than the Bellagio.
Last night, I went for tapas at Cafe Iberico. The dining room was half-empty, but the bar at the entrance was crowded. Young girls, whose attempts at appearing twenty-one were failing miserably despite their elaborate, if painfully misguided, fashion efforts. I should have been amused, at best indifferent, but I was overcome by a bout of what I can only describe as fatherly outrage. Get back home and put something decent on. I did not speak the words, obviously, but the mere fact of thinking them was more than enough to make me feel weak and irreparably old. A night of drinking ensued. I found myself at a bar aptly called the Empty Bottle. Despite the blinding headache I experienced this morning, I took some pride in seeing no cuts or bruises on my hands. The pride would not last. I went to the store for Advil and, upon my return, found I had bought a quart of milk for Aster’s cereal without realizing it. I got angry and threw the milk against the wall. I left a sizable tip on the nightstand, but it might be best to move to a new hotel before the carpet starts to smell.
It was, in hindsight, less than heroic to abandon Aster as I did. I wish I could say I thought the matter over and came to a rational decision, but I did not. Had I thought the matter over, I would have done the same—heroism would have helped no one in this case—but it’s clear that self-preservation still ranks higher than the more noble qualities I strive to acquire. Nonetheless, I am … perturbed, and I fear I will remain this way for the foreseeable future. I cannot help but think that the unpleasantness I might have endured for letting her die, even the guilt of killing her myself, would have dissipated faster. I took pride in “doing the right thing” at the time, but in doing so I have only raised the bar to unattainable heights. Simply not killing her doesn’t come close to “doing the right thing” anymore. As for a rescue …
