Abyss (Songs of Megiddo) (20 page)

“In order to do the work that we’re preparing to do, one cannot be so
...narrow in ones’ thinking.” his non-answer told me a whole hell of a lot of what I needed to know.

“But that’s part of it, right? This is an
Objectivist thing?” There was a sharp intake of breath. I was expecting an affirmation of some sort. Something to acknowledge that my guess was right. I didn’t get it. Instead, Ambrose chuckled.

“I’ve been
watching you, ‘Ms’ Donohue.” He said it casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like I hadn’t asked him a question. Like he wasn’t bludgeoning me with
this
to get out of responding to
that
. It was a control thing. I knew that. I kind of even – honestly – got that
.
But still...I played into his hands. I forgot all about my question. His statement forced my mind elsewhere, sending icy sparks sniggering down the inside of my spine. But it wasn’t just fear, though there was, definitely, that.

Who the fuck do you think you are?

“Excuse me?” I hissed.

“Not in the way you’re thinking.” I realised I was holding my breath. Every muscle in me was tense. I forced myself to breath evenly.
To stay calm. Or, at least, as calm as I could, given the circumstances.

“Really? And
in what way am I thinking?”

“I don’t wish you harm. I’m not delusional, or impulsive, or prone to emotional instability. I watch you because I
appreciate your curiosity. Though, I must say, such curiosity does attract attention.”

“Well clearly, if it’s got
you watching me.” I sneered. “I bet you think miniskirts get girls raped, too, don’t you?” He paused for a moment.

“Please, Kayla.” He sounded
– what – disappointed? Too crass, I guess. “I’m not the only one out there watching. While I find it endearing, others may view your curiosity as...troubling.”

“Well, like my mother always said,” I responded warily, after several moments “‘Curiosity never hurt anyone
important. Just some cats’. She was a dog person.” His laugh was light and pleasant. Somehow that made it worse. More unnerving.

“Your mother never said any such thing.”

“She could have. How would you know?”

“How would
you
?” He snapped. I raised an eyebrow.

“
Touché.”

“I apologise.” He sighed. Without meaning to
– and without knowing why the fuck I did – I felt myself pulling closer to him emotionally. The thing is...when you know too much about a stranger, the burden of knowing? Sometimes it comes to mimic the weight of intimacy. It can be a very disconcerting sensation.

“No, it’s fine.” I paused. “Why did you make contact, Ambrose? Why
now?”

“I know you think I’m going to make threats. You know enough, now, that it would seem natural if I did so. But I would never threaten you, Kayla.” there was a kind of pained te
nderness, there...edging around his words. “No, I admire you. Perhaps I even...love you, insofar as I’m capable of such things.”

“You don’t
know
me...” I responded quietly.

“Watching a person is
basically knowing them...if you watch them the right way.”

“You’re wrong.”

“No. I’m not. And you know I’m not. You just don’t know how you know. But it’ll come to you in a moment.” I inhaled sharply...with a muted, involuntarily squeak.

“Fuck,” I whispered, a shaky hand rising to cover my mouth, my eyes widening.

Fuck...no.

Those words were
mine. For a second I just stood there... cemented in place, feeling violated in a way that only a person who works with words for a living can feel, finding one’s own words repurposed as weapons and used again them.

“That was
private
.” I growled. He’d been in my bedroom – mine and Naithe’s – or there was a recording device hidden there, or any one of about six other possibilities – each worse than the last – that could have led to someone hearing those specific words. I had – I was almost positive – only used them once.

“It’s not
tawdry, Kayla. Nothing perverse.”

Oh. Well that’s
all right then...you fucking son-of-a –

“
– You see, I’m not interested in that side of you. The dirty, base, animal side.”

“Because
you’re so fucking pure, I’m
sure
,” I spat.

“Does it
matter? The truth of each of us sits in perfect symmetry. The rest – our respective expendable remainders – are divergent, but there is something between us that is perfectly equivalent. And I mean you no harm. Not you, specifically. Or your husband.” I was in shock, I realised. I couldn’t move. I knew what was happening – that I should hang up and call the police – but I couldn’t. I just stood there.

“What do you want from me, Ambrose?” I asked. I heard my voice: cold and distant, bleeding into the chill freshness of the air
-conditioned negative space around me.

“I want you to
live, Kayla. More accurately...I want you to choose to be saved.”

“If the next words out of your mouth are ‘Our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ’, I’m gonna have to disappoint you, there
...”

“Genuinely amusing, Kayla. Really. But I meant what I said
literally.”

“I don’t understand.”

“And you won’t. Not entirely. But I will help you to grasp the tiny fragment that currently applies to you. The rest will come later, when we are together.”

“Together? Ambrose, what the
fuck are you – ”

“
– I mean this, again, only in the most literal of ways. As I explained, I’m not interested in ‘that’ side of you. What I mean to say, is that it will come when we are physically proximous to one another; nothing more.” He paused.

“Ambrose
– ” I began. He cut me off.

“
– You’re very clever, Kayla. I always believed that, and I’m glad to have been validated in my belief. I had the highest of hopes for you, and you’ve impressed me utterly.” He informed me. I paused for a long moment...unable to work out how to react. “Here is the truth for which you’ve been searching: I have made myself scarce, as have others. ‘The Disappeared’, as you call us, are preparing.”

“Preparing for what?”

“For a new era. A new age. A new world order.”

“Designed by fucking
Objectivists?”

“I never
confirmed that.”

“You never
denied it, either. I’m a fucking journalist, Ambrose...” There was a long pause. Ambrose almost stuttered as he began, seemingly nervous:

“Would it be
...so very bad, Kayla?”

“Yes, Ambrose. Yes, it would absolutely,
definitely be ‘so very bad’.”

“Well,” His voice h
ardened. “There will be choices, of course. There are always choices.”

“More riddles?”

“There have never been riddles. Only pieces of a puzzle too large to be properly cognised from within.”

“Ambrose.” I stated firmly, trying to stop the conversation from veering off into the realm of the pointlessly esoteric. “Are you telling me
...to stop looking? To stop investigating you? Is that what this is about?”

“‘
Ms’ Donohue...” Ambrose said, almost mockingly. “If we wanted you to stop, you’d have been stopped. No, I have ‘established contact’ with you because – now that it doesn’t matter anymore; now that our work is close enough to completion that what we’ve worked towards cannot be stopped...I do, I believe, have it within my capabilities to salvage a single life which, otherwise, would be needlessly extinguished.”

“So when you said that you wanted me to
live...”

“Yes.” He confirmed.

“You’ve been so lonely. For so long.” I didn’t even know exactly where the words came from. A place of pity; a place of sadness. ‘Sadness’, that this was a place he could come to inhabit. ‘Pity’, for the pitiful attempt the locate something genuine by way of coercion and blackmail.

“Really, we watched
each other.” He responded quietly. “You watched me, albeit after the event and from a much greater distance...but you certainly saw enough to know why my life as it was...wasn’t a thing of any great value to me.”

“Growing up the way you did
...”

“Yes.”

“I felt for you, when I read about it. “

“And you understood that I didn’t want my story told. You told them it was lazi
ness: you told yourself that. I watched you. I could see you making the decision, over and over again, to spare my memory. Your selflessness moved me. I was genuinely touched. I had forgotten that I had the capacity to, on occasion,
feel
.”

“You seemed so quiet. I couldn’t imagine
that you’d want the world to know what had happened.” He paused. I heard his voice catch on the other end of the line.

“Is it why
you
lie?” My eyes narrowed.

“I left
your story alone. Show mine the same respect, please.” I was surprised at my own words. Rationally, I knew that he couldn’t possibly have known. I’d been ten at the time. But still...I felt it. I felt as if, maybe...maybe, somehow, he knew.

“Tomorrow, Kayla
...when your Editor calls you? Terminate the call. Hang up; make your excuses to your husband; get in your car; and drive to the airport. Purchase a plane ticket. Somewhere – anywhere – outside the continental United States. Once you have successfully cleared customs, you will be contacted. If you want to live...this is what you will do. Consider this an offer of ‘safe passage’. If you contact the authorities, the offer will be rescinded. If you try to take any other person with you, the offer will be rescinded. If you go too late, the offer will be rescinded. And, most importantly, there is nothing that you...or anyone else...can do to change what will happen. Nothing will change if you do not do as I have instructed, regardless of what other action you take. This is your one...chance.”

“What about Naithe?” I reflexively stuttered out.

I still wish that I hadn’t asked that. I’ve never forgiven myself for it, and it’s possible that I never will. I knew, the second I asked the question, that if they let me save him – just him and myself – then the rest of them could die...no matter how many people ‘the rest of them’ entailed...and I would let it go. I was certain that, if Naithe and I could survive, together...then I would learn to live with that. I also knew...instinctively, behind the manic babbling of my inner monologue...that if I hadn’t had Naithe in my life, I wouldn’t have even asked the question. I would have chosen me; regardless of the consequences for others.

Ever since that moment
; that question and those thoughts...I’ve had to know that about myself. That, when it came down to it, that was the person I’d become. Maybe it isn’t who I am anymore, but here’s the thing: if I am, the only way I’ll know is if I’m presented with a similar choice. What if it happens? What if I
am
still the same? What if people’s lives depend on me having changed, and I haven’t?

Ambrose sighed.

“I’m sorry, Kayla. Important matters await my attention. I do – genuinely – hope to see you at the airport.”

“Ambrose, whatever this
is, don’t – ” A click signalled the end of the call. For a full minute, I couldn’t move. I was shaking all over. It was that wistful calm that did it...that sense I got from him that whatever it was, the trigger had already been pulled; that, whether or not he’d had reservations, at any point, the internal battles he’d had to fight had been over and done with for some time. And – the implication was – whatever it was that was going to happen couldn’t be escaped without getting off the continent. I believed it. I don’t know why I did – even now – but I believed it to the very centre of me.

And, as it turned out, I was
right
to.

XIV
– Wright and Wrong

~ Dio and Yvonne ~

30/11/2023

Dio, hearing voices, had
– however reluctantly – extricated himself from Yvonne’s sleeping form to go and investigate.

He recognised Wright’s voice immediately. Despite it being, very clearly, Wright’s
voice...it didn’t – to Dio at least – sound a thing like him. There was a distinct difference from what he’d come to expect from that voice; both in the sound of it, and in the way that it carried. A touch more manic, he thought. Less measured. Less in control.

“You slimy,
arrogant little whore.” Dio raised a mildly shocked eyebrow. It was like hearing a straight-laced uncle saying...well...
that
, essentially. Vertigo. Vertigo in
waves
. “I always hated you. If it were up to me, we never would have brought you in.”

“And yet
...” The second voice – again, not what Dio was expecting – belonged to Smoke. “Here I am.”

“Yes. Yes, here you are. Though
...for exactly how long...remains to be seen.”

“Oh, the
balls on you...” She snarled. “Listen up, you fucking has-been prick – ”

“
– Has-been? I am this goddamned three-ring-circus, you stupid little cunt.”

“Jesus
-Mary-and-Joseph,” Smoke scoffed: “What is it about this uppity fucking bit – ”

“
– Finish that sentence, Aviary...and I’ll have your head on a skewer...regardless of what ‘The Seven’ have to say about it.” Wright growled. Dio flinched. Wright had just used an actual name. ‘Aviary’. Aviary was Smoke. Smoke was Aviary. This was definitely a conversation that he wasn’t meant to be overhearing. Creeping forward, he hazarded a glance around the corner. The two stood; squared off against one another by the shadows at the edge of the small kitchen. They were far too distracted to notice him. At least, he very much hoped that was the case.

“
Why are you protecting her?” Came Smoke’s exasperated response. “All actives covering a major project need to be vetted. It’s fucking
policy
.”

“Policy?
Policy
?” Wright spat, enunciating the word as though it were deeply, irreconcilably foreign. “So this comes straight from the horse’s mouth, does it?”

“Where else?” Aviary held up her hands, as if she were challenging him. ‘Bring it’, her body language seemed to scream.

“Well then: you can tell Galt to go ahead and cross her off of his list. That sociopathic miscreant would bathe in blood if we put the option on the table.”

“Like
you’re a fucking boy-scout...”

“At least I don’t do it for
fun.” Smoke laughed a vicious little laugh.

“Don’t you? I mean,
really: don’t you?”

“We’re close enough, now.” Wright insisted, apparently ignoring the question, along with the dark suggestiveness that underlined it: “I could go and
personally tell her everything, and it’d be too late for her to stop it. Though her reaction to finding out
may
surprise you.”

“Oh, I
doubt it.” Smoke bit back with an air of condescending superiority.

“And you’d know...how, exactly? You don’t have the clearance to know.”

“I don’t need clearance. All I need, is to know
you
. What, do think she’s gonna choose you over her husband? Is that what you think?” Smoke stared at him; incredulous. Wright simply glared at her, saying nothing. “Fuck you’re delusional. Have you seriously gone and gotten it into your head, somehow, that you’re her type?”

“And what, pray tell, is ‘her type’?”

“
Not
...a fucking sociopathic freak-show, I imagine?”

“
Careful, Aviary...”

“Do you
...” She paused, trailing off; her hand moving to cover her mouth in what appeared to be an emphatic gesture of genuine shock. “Do you think...that you’re the ‘good guy’ in this story? The one who gets the girl? The one who’s saving the day? Fuck...you
do
, don’t you?” Smoke emitted a short, sharp burst of horrified laughter; staring at him, and shaking her head slowly back and forth.

“Do
you imagine...” Wright began, his words slow and carefully chosen: “Do you imagine, ‘operative Smoke’...that you are the only one who knows how to make a corpse? Who knows how to dispose of one, away from prying eyes?”

“It must’ve been awhile, Wright. You think you’re up to it?” She mocked.

“To ending
you
?” He scoffed. “Do you have any idea who I was? What I did? We’re all monsters, here, Aviary...but trust me when I say: you want to walk away from this fight. I’m out of your ‘weight class’.”

“Please.” Aviary stepped up to Wright, getting in his face. “
Please try something.” She paused. Leaning around the corner, Dio could see her, almost pressed against Wright in a strange, deadly intimacy; their eyes locked together, bleeding hate into the air between them. When she spoke again, her voice was sultry. Sultry and quiet...but taunting; challenging: “C’mon: I really...really...wanna see you try something.”

“Get out of here, Aviary. Crawl back to Galt like the spineless, tremulous invertebrate that you are.
Relay this message: tell him that he’s not...getting...her.”

“Before this thing is done, I’m gonna
...” She trailed off. The two of them stood there for a moment; toe-to-toe. Their eyes burned into one another’s. To Dio’s surprise, Smoke was the first to break off. Muttering something horrific to herself, she turned...storming out of the room. Reaching the front door, she seemed to have regained her composure; Dio heard the door open and close; making the assumption that she’d noiselessly slipped away into the eternal darkness of Palatine Hill. Dio quietly turned, intending to go back to bed; to Yvonne, and the warmth of her body against his. Wright had other plans.

“Oh Dio
...” he heard the edge of disappointed judgement before the words themselves registered. “Whatever am I going to do with you?” Dio stopped dead.

“I was just
– ”

“
– I know what you were ‘just’.” Wright suddenly sounded extremely tired. “Come on. Let’s have a nightcap, shall we? I think there are a few things we should probably discuss.”

§§§

Wright poured out two tumblers of Scotch.

“I’m not much of a drinker,” Dio insisted.

“You are tonight.” Wright muttered dismissively, pressing the glass into Dio’s solar plexus and leading the way through and into the impressive space that Wright described as, simply, the ‘lounge’.

There were floor
-to-ceiling shelves stocked with a vast range of books and periodicals: sorted alphabetically and by subject. An open log fire burned, spat, and crackled from the centre of the far wall. Looking down at the floor, Dio saw vibrant swirls of colour; millions of tiny, coloured shards of tile pressed together to depict an enormous, up-reaching hand. The fingers were wreathed in handwritten Latin 5notation, segmented by the cracks between tiles. Nestled in the palm was an eye...tiled with the same bewitching, glowing purple that Sudo’s eyes had shone with. The appendage itself was surrounded by azure Ocean and earthy, green and pale brown islets. At the thumb and index finger of the hand, angled to face the fire, were two luxurious armchairs. Wright patted the back of one, indicating that Dio should sit. He did, nursing the scotch, and trying to summon up the resolve to take a sip.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Wright remarked casually. Dio
sincerely doubted that.

“Yes?”

“Fire hazard.” Wright pressed a loving hand across and onto several of the books, strumming across their spines as if their were some kind of enormous, bibliophilic harp. “Don’t worry. The fire’s not real.” Dio’s brow knotted.

“It’s not?”

“No.” Wright sauntered over to the fire, bending slightly and moving a hand slowly through the flames. “See? An illusion.” Dio was confused. The flames flicked and the embers crackled and hissed. There was nothing about it that hinted at anything other than complete authenticity. But then...he remembered the visions in the white room. “A good rule of thumb for The Organisation; for the world we live in, come to that...” there seemed to be an edge of sadness to Wright’s voice. “Is that not much of it is what it seems to be. Not much at all. If you find something real, it needs to be treasured. If you don’t love it...learn to. Because ‘real’ is the rarest thing there is. Recognising it and appreciating it as it deserves to be appreciated...it’ll enrich you. It’ll make
you
more real. A better man.” He paused, glancing over at Dio. “But I think you already know that, don’t you?” Dio shrugged, confused.

“Sir.” He settled on. Neither affirmation nor denial, just
...respectful deference. Wright shook his head.

“You’re not a
military man, Dio. You never really were. So don’t call me ‘sir’.” Wright paused, looking him over appraisingly, before moving to the other armchair and folding himself tiredly into it. “And drink that Scotch, would you? It was in a barrel longer than you’ve been drawing breath.” Dio raised the tumbler to his lips. The chill of the rim between his lips surprised him. The liquid felt thin: burning through his mouth; over his tongue; and down his throat.

“
Faa-
ha
,” Dio wheezed. Wright smirked.

“Yes, it’s a bit like that, isn’t it?” He asked rhetorically. “What do you usually drink, when you drink?”

“Beer. Wine.”

“And Yvonne?” Dio wasn’t certain.

“Something strong, probably.” Dio shrugged, realising that he wasn’t at all sure. Wright nodded.

“Yes. I don’t doubt it. The two of you are interesting to watch.” Wright commented. “I
like watching people, you see. It’s a hobby of mine. Good...evil...rich...poor; it is, perhaps, the one thing that unites us as a species: if you look closely enough, every one of us is fascinating. And the two of you interest me particularly.”

“Why is that?” Dio winced as he sipped at the Scotch.

“You complement one another. She holds you up; keeps you strong...but inside, there’s a fragility to Yvonne. A sort of a...lack of ‘structural integrity’, of you follow, that makes it difficult for her to hold herself up. Even though, of course, from the outside, you’d never doubt that she could. People like Yvonne generally find centredness in emotional overcompensation, or they collapse. That’s my experience, mind you. Differing perspectives may beg to differ, as they often do. But you, on the other hand...you’re strong from the centre. You’re the scrappy little boxer who keeps getting back up, no matter how hard he’s hit...even though he looks as though he’d crumple at the first punch. It took me awhile to see that, but it’s definitely there, isn’t it? A core fortitude that’s very much a part of who you are. What do you suppose that is? Conviction? Faith perhaps?” Dio shook his head.

“I don’t know. I try to be a good man.” Dio didn’t understand quite what Wright meant.

“What sort of man was your father?” Wright enquired.

“A good man.” Dio shrugged. “A very
honest man.”

“Tell me more.” Wright prodded.

“Well, I think...in some ways, you can judge a man by the way that he’s seen by his children.” Wright nodded in agreement. “I always hoped I could be the kind of man my father would respect, whereas
he
always seemed to want to distance himself from his father and grandfather. To...to wash himself clean of them, I suppose.”

“Do you want to know more about The Organisation?” Wright asked after a few seconds of silence.

“No.” It was almost a cough. A semi-voluntary twitch. But he knew it was true as he said it, even though the truth of it surprised him. The real surprise, however, was Wright’s sympathetic nod.

“And why not?” Wright smiled reassuringly
as he asked the question. Dio took a deep breath. He found himself unable to reply. Staring into the heart of the fire, he sighed, taking a sip of Scotch. “Let me answer that for you. May I?” His voice was soft and kind. Dio nodded.

“Yes.”

“You don’t want to know more...because, deep down, you know that good men – good
people
– don’t work so hard as we do to hide the truth. They don’t say things like what you overheard Smoke and I saying to one another. They don’t live underground, and make lists of seemingly random names based on covert surveillance. Good people don’t build things like Palatine Hill.” Dio found himself nodding. “Now...there’s a very simple explanation, that, as a man who strives for honesty, I know you’ll be able to appreciate. Would you like to hear it?”

“Yes.” Dio nodded hesitantly.

“Alright. I’ll tell you.” Wright sat back in his chair. A minute passed. Only the spit and crackle of the illusory flames held the silence at bay. “The truth of it is, that we’re not good people, Dio. Not at the top. Some of us think that we are...and at the lower levels of The Organisation, we have many people with us who would, by any normal person’s reckoning, be viewed as ‘good’. But at the top...as I’m sure you heard me tell Smoke...we’re monsters, Dio. Brutal, angry, violent, broken people, whose disgust over the actions of the species from which we would – if we could – extricate ourselves, is equalled only by the disgust that we feel for ourselves: for the people that we are. Our dearest hope; perhaps our
only
collective hope...is that, through our actions, the world will one day be a place where our kind – simply put – cannot exist. We are Moses, as it were...seeking to lead Humanity to the ‘Promised Land’: a place where we, ourselves, cannot enter.” Dio didn’t know what to say. He wanted to dismiss it as self-effacing hyperbole, but something in Wright’s face told him that, if anything, it was a fairly restrained characterisation. “At the risk of labouring the analogy: Our ‘forty years in the desert’, I suppose you could say, begins tomorrow.”