Circuit Of Heaven (20 page)

Lawrence picked him up, his feet dangling in the air, and carried him off the train, setting him on the platform. The train left the station in a loud whoosh he felt in his chest, as if it had sucked the air out of his lungs.

“We thought you might need a little help getting home,” Lawrence said.

“But how’d you know? How long you been here?”

“Only a few minutes. Put your arm around our waist.”

Nemo obeyed and started shuffling toward the escalator in slow motion. “But how’d you know—”

“It’s not good for you to talk so damn much.”

“But I don’t understand—”

“A little bird told us, now shut up. Watch the steps here.”

Nemo stumbled getting on to the escalator in spite of Lawrence’s warning. As the escalator carried him along, and Lawrence kept him from falling over, he puzzled over how Lawrence had shown up in the first place. “Did Victor tell you? Have you rigged up a shortwave or something?”

They’d reached street level, and Nemo was trying to walk, but he kept falling sideways. He could move his legs, but his timing was off, and the ground seemed to tilt back and forth like the deck of a ship.

“Why don’t we just carry you?” Lawrence said. He knelt down, pulled Nemo’s arms over his shoulders, and hoisted him onto his back, piggyback. “Hold on.”

They started moving down the street with the speed of Lawrence’s long stride. He moved as if Nemo didn’t weigh a thing. It was nice to be carried, Nemo thought. “So d’you have a shortwave?” he yawned.

“Are you going to keep this up all the way home?”

“Just tell me, Lawrence.” He lifted up his head, but it swayed back and forth, and he let it drop, resting his chin on Lawrence’s green head, watching the world bob up and down as if he were at sea, floating, drifting toward the horizon. But still, he was curious. “You gonna tell me?” he insisted, though his words were slurring again.

“Just give it a rest. We’ll tell you later.”

Their house came into view, bobbing up and down, and all Nemo could think about was sleeping in his bed. His eyes fluttered shut. “Promise?” he mumbled.

“Promise,” Lawrence said.

WHEN
JUSTINE
STEPPED
OUT
OF
THE
VIM
IN
PENTAGON
Station, she looked over at the one next to her. It was empty. Nemo was back in his own world. He might as well have been on the dark side of the moon. The clock on the wall, in the shape of a pentagon, read seven-thirty. He’d been in for over twenty hours. She imagined him in pain, helpless, cursing her for luring him into the Bin. What in the hell was I thinking of, she asked herself, letting him risk his life for me?

He’d made it so easy. It was nothing. It was as if he
wanted
to risk his life for her, just as he regularly crossed that crumbling bridge for a favorite beach, for some kind of meaning it held for him. When I crossed that bridge, she thought, I was terrified, even when I
knew
it wasn’t real—that the bridge could crumble, or the wind could knock me off my feet, and I might fall—but I’d never die.

When you’re in here long enough, do you get used to the idea? How many Real World Tours would it take before she was skipping across that bridge, diving off it, numb to the fear, to the beauty? Nemo said there was nothing to fear in the Bin. Maybe he was wrong.

She was still standing in front of the long row of VIMs, lining the wall as far as she could see in either direction, dozens of them, more than would ever be needed again. She imagined this place bustling, people coming and going in hordes. How long ago would that’ve been? Twenty years? Thirty? Now, she suspected, she could stand here all day and not see another soul from the real world, just a few like her who pretended to go. How many were left who actually came and went between the worlds? For all she knew, Nemo was the last one.

She closed her eyes and tried to calm herself. Nemo would be fine. As he said, under twenty-four hours wasn’t fatal. What she truly feared was losing their love. Her fantasies as Juliet hadn’t prepared her for this. It wasn’t just a wild delirium, as she’d imagined, but a clarity as well. When he looked into her eyes, he saw someone no one else could see. When she was with him, she became herself. She could feel it inside, like a flower opening, and she could feel it in him, touching, knowing him, as he too came to life in her arms.

She opened her eyes, looked up and down the long row of empty coffins. She had faith in their love. It was herself she doubted. St. Catherine’s had vanished by the time she was born. She tried to picture one clear, distinct memory from the last three years—a place, a person’s face, anything. There was nothing until three days ago when she woke up in bed with Winston.

Everything was supposed to be perfect in here. Everything but her. Somehow, some way, there was something wrong with her, and she wanted to know why. No, she thought, I don’t care about why—I just want to know who I am. It didn’t seem too much to ask.

SHE
LEFT
THE
HALL
OF
COFFINS
,
PASSED
THE
ESCALATORS
to the station, and headed down the hall marked
RECEIVING
. She went through a simple glass door,
RECEIVING
stencilled on it and nothing more. She found herself in an office. To her right, a window looked out over the train platform below. There was a sofa under the window. To her left was a closed metal door. In the middle of the room was a computer terminal, but no one was seated at it. She was headed for the metal door when it opened, and a woman peeked her head out. “You need some help?”

“Yes, I think so. I’ve been having trouble remembering things, and I suspect something might’ve gone wrong when I was uploaded. I wanted to see what might be done.”

“Certainly,” the woman said cheerfully. She came through the door and seated herself at the terminal. She had striking red hair and strong leonine features. She was wearing a camel-colored suit that looked like it came from the early twentieth century. She gave off an air of friendly competence and good will.

“Can you help me?”

“That’s what I’m here for.” She gestured at the sofa. “Won’t you sit down?”

“No thanks. I’ll just stand.”

“Name?”

“Justine Ingham.”

Her hands moved over the keyboard. “Here you are. Justine Ingham; born Dallas, Texas; no known relatives; twenty years old; entered
ALMA
three days ago—April 15, 2081, 8:47 A.M.”

Justine steadied herself on the table. The woman didn’t seem to notice. “No, I came in six weeks ago, in Dallas.”

The woman checked the display. “Not according to this.”

Justine struggled to remember what she could—the hotels, the bars. “I think I was in Chicago last week. The Ambassador Hotel.”

“Let’s just see,” the woman said, still smiling, keying it in. When the information came up, her smile vanished.“You’re right. Justine Ingham, room 614. No wonder you’re having trouble remembering things.”

“What about before I came in here?”

“I don’t have any information on that. There’s no address in Dallas, but a lot of people don’t have real addresses anymore. Let me pull up your complete file and see what I can find out.” She pressed a few keys and cocked an eyebrow. She pointed to the screen, inviting Justine to see for herself.
Restricted Access
, it said.

“What does that mean?”

The woman eyed her suspiciously. “Maybe you’re not who you say you are.”

Though she said maybe, she sounded certain of it. “Then who am I? According to you I was staying in a hotel before I was even in here. Maybe your computer’s screwed up.”

“Then I guess I can’t help you.” The woman’s smile was now a thin, cruel line.

What’s the deal? Justine wondered. At first, this woman’s nice as can be, and now she’s treating me like a pariah. “But what does that mean, ‘Restricted Access’?”

“You’ll have to discuss that with someone who has access.” The woman stood. “If you’ll excuse me”. And then she left through the metal door. Justine tried the knob, but it was locked.

SHE
WENT
BACK
TO
HER
HOTEL
AND
CALLED
EVERY
NUMBER
in her address book. This time she left messages at everyone. Sooner or later somebody had to call her. Now she was sure something was screwed up. She couldn’t very well have come in three days ago
and
been in Chicago last week. But if they wouldn’t help her at Receiving, where was she supposed to go? Who was she supposed to talk to?

She soon grew tired of waiting for the phone to ring,ate an early dinner, and went down to the club in hopes of catching John. Sure enough, he was in the green room smoking a joint.

“Hey Justine.” He held out the joint to her, and she waved it away.

“John, I need to ask you a few things, okay?”

He grinned. “What is the meaning of life? When is time? How high is up? How up is high?”

“I’m serious. When were you guys hired? How did it happen?”

“Calm down, Justine. You’re steamin‘. Let’s see. Week ago. Lenny called. Sent the virtuals, and we learned the tunes. There you were, and here we are. Band of your dreams.”

“Were you playing with Rick and Ian before?”

“No. I was between gigs.” He chuckled and took a toke.

“Have you worked with Lenny before?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Why did he call you?”

“Why does anybody do anything, Justine? Why don’t you ask him? He’s
your
agent.”

“I can’t get hold of him.”

John nodded sagely, took another deep hit. “Course not. He’s an agent.”

“Thanks, John.” She started to leave him to his joint, but she remembered what had been nagging at her since she’d last talked to him. “That friend of yours—the one who had herself downloaded—who did she talk to? How did she set it up?”

John didn’t speak for a moment, his chin tucked against his chest, smoke drifting out of his nostrils, looking at her under hooded brows. He exhaled loudly and shook his head. “Can’t help you there, Justine. Don’t even think about it. Crazy shit, I’m telling you. Crazy shit.”

SHE
TALKED
TO
BRUCE
,
THE
CLUB
OWNER
,
ABOUT
HOW
SHE
was hired and got the same story. Lenny had set it up a week ago. Bruce didn’t know Lenny, but he’d liked the tapes, so he booked her. He was glad he did, he added. She was great. Word was out, and he was expecting a big crowd. She could play there as long as she wanted.

She went back to the green room. Rick and Ian were there now, but she didn’t see much point in talking to them. Rick would just be an asshole, and Ian wouldn’t say two words. It was her problem. She just had to deal with it. As she tuned up, she sat in the corner and tried to fit the pieces together. If Lenny booked her a week ago, she couldn’t have come in three days ago. It made more sense that she came in six weeks ago—screwed up somehow—and they tried to fix it or something three days ago, and changed the date on her entry. But who was
they
anyway? Who ran this damn place?

“Hey, boss lady.” Rick broke into her thoughts. “It’s show time. Don’t want to be
late
now, do we?”

For once Rick was right. The bar was packed to the rafters. She had to put everything else out of her mind and sing. When she was a kid she used to sing in front of the mirror, pretend there was a wildly cheering audience. Now they were waiting, just as she’d always dreamed. She only wished Nemo was here, sitting up front as he had last night.

“Let’s do it,” she said.

They played each set better than the one before, and the crowd loved them. Even Rick seemed to be having a good time. With each song, her troubles seemed to lift. She dedicated “Coming Up Close” to Nemo, even though he wasn’t there. He would be tomorrow. Today, she realized, for it was after midnight. In less than twelve hours she’d see him again. In the song, the lovers had one night only. She was already blessed.

They did four encores before they finally quit playing. Rick and Ian, even John, were leaving with different women who’d hung around, waiting for them. Justine was glad to walk back to her hotel alone, take in the beautiful night. She smiled and closed her eyes, walking down the middle of a city street at two o’clock in the morning, giddy with exhaustion, looking forward to seeing her lover. They’d find a way. They had to.

A MOCKINGBIRD—
TEN
TIMES
LOUDER
THAN
ANY
CREATURE
had a right to be, showing off with trills and buzzes and piercing high notes that made his temples throb—woke Nemo from a deep, heavy sleep. He cracked his eyelids, and there was Lawrence sitting on a stool by the open window, watching the mockingbird perform on the windowsill.

“What in the hell are you doing?” Nemo croaked, and the mockingbird took his concert and flew away.

“Damnit, Nemo, you scared him off.”

“Be strong, Lawrence.” He squinted at his clock, but it’d run down. “What time is it anyway?”

Lawrence lit up a cigarette, and blew the smoke out the window. “About ten. Looks like you must’ve enjoyed yourself a bit too much night ‘fore last. Jonathan said you were howling at the moon when he left.”

“I’m sure.”

Nemo carefully leaned to one side and slid his pants off the end of the bed, trying to figure out how to put them on without moving his head. Lawrence sat smoking, watching Nemo’s struggles with amused detachment. He was still working on smoke rings. About every third try, a wobbly saucer shape came out, but that was as close as he could get.

Nemo managed to get both legs into his pants, but he was having trouble getting them past his knees without moving the few inches it took to start his head throbbing and his stomach churning.

“Don’t you usually do that standing up?” Lawrence asked after a while.