Authors: Karen Haber
Mutant Legacy (2 page)
i can still
smell the city burning
.
I know that
it was
reduced
My name is Julian Akimura and I am the head of what some people call the Church of the Better World. It is not a job I particularly wanted but I have grown accustomed to it in much the same way that one’s foot, by forming calluses, adjusts, with time, to a tight shoe.
The church squeezes me, squeezes my life, and in response, in virtual self-defense, I’ve grown a tough, protective hide: cool, calm Dr. Julian whom nothing rumples. Underneath, I seethe, I boil. If not for my duties and their numbing pleasure … but I won’t think about that, not now. No one sees. No one knows. And the only one capable of piercing my defenses is gone.
“Dr. Akimura?”
The voice, a sharp contralto, slides between me and my visions, neatly severing me from the past. I blink and peer out the window where the city sits, immaculate, untouched, white spires reaching for the china-blue sky.
My familiars range around me in this well-appointed meeting room: elite members of the administrative upper tier of Better World, the house that Rick built. We are having a meeting: the priests and priestesses of management like meetings. They enjoy sitting around the polished sandstone table, sipping green Mars Elixir from faceted crystal cups, and making policy while I pretend to listen.
“Dr. Akimura?” It was Barsi, director of Therapeutic Services, speaking. Lovely Barsi, former Hindu, my dark-eyed, devoted Brahmin acolyte, calling my attention back to the business at hand. “As you know, we’re still undecided about the deployment of certain Better World funds.”
“Refresh my memory,” I said.
She gave a quick, sidelong glance to Ginny Quinlan, chief financial officer, a sharp-featured blonde who wore her hair short and slicked back. Had Ginny put her up to making the proposal, knowing my obvious fondness for Barsi?
“Well,” Barsi said, “we already have sufficient funding for the outreach programs and service missions. Many of us feel that we could use some of the money elsewhere. We might find it useful to, say, buy a controlling interest in TexMedia. We know that it’s in a vulnerable position and we could get it at a good price.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Useful? To whom? And what good would a third-rate vid company do B.W.? Are we planning some new programs that require more production facilities? And if we are, why haven’t I heard about them?”
Another quick glance exchanged between the two. What was going on here?
“You needn’t worry,” Ginny said quickly. “We were merely thinking of expanding our broadcasting range. We want to attract as many members as possible.”
“Why?” I said. “Because of their need for help or your desire to swell our already overflowing coffers?” I could see the dollar signs in her eyes. It was the same old argument we had been having for almost twenty years: expansion of the corporation versus meeting the needs of the members. “Expansion? We already own one vid company. Excerpts from
Rick’s Way
are read, dramatized, and discussed every night around the globe. What more do we need?”
Barsi, beside me, took a deep breath and plunged. “Julian,” she said, and her tone was more direct than I had ever befor itd ever e heard it. “You might as well know that we feel Better World needs to move more, well, aggressively. Money has been piling up—
Rick’s Way
sells out every printing, and we think it’s time to move forward. Invest it in some of the off-world mines and so forth. Increase our returns. Prepare for future contingencies.”
“Make more money? Don’t we have enough? We shouldn’t be thinking about investments, we should be thinking about helping the poor and needy.”
“You know we are. But we can do more. So much more. We’re getting into a rut. If we don’t move forward, we’ll decay.”
“Surely you don’t have to be told that there are all kinds of programs in place,” Ginny said. Her husky alto rasp was harsher than usual, the vibrato almost shredding her words. “We provide hot meals, medical care, remedial education, family counseling. In every major city where we have a center we offer all these services. Don’t accuse us of depriving anyone.”
Quickly I took up my sword in the familiar battle and said, “If we’re doing so much and so well, why are there still so many people in need?”
The B.W. cenobites exchanged uneasy glances—obviously, the old man was proving less pliable than usual. Dammit, they would never have tried something like this when Betty Smithson was alive to ride herd on them. But she had died six months ago, and since then, the children had been getting into mischief.
Don Torrance, city manager, spoke up. “Dr. Akimura, no one is saying there isn’t always room for improvement. Perhaps what we mean to say is that there are different ways of addressing needs, of providing services, of helping people.”
“I’m listening.”
He smiled, aiming for charm but overshooting. “We’ve been considering a plan to expand a portion of Better City’s recreational facilities in order to provide activities for visitors. Perhaps even construct a museum/information center and accommodations for overnight travelers. We see it as a way to more aggressively reach out to the community.”
“Reach out aggressively?” I said. “What the hell does that mean? Do you want to seize a city? Kidnap a czar?” I was furious now, face heated until I was dripping sweat, hands shaking. “Have you all forgotten what we do here? We are a healing organization. We help others. Not ourselves. We don’t build amusement parks. We don’t put up tourist hotels.”
That should have settled them. Occasionally I’ve had to play rough in the past. But what was this? Each face, every one of them, was set, scowling, stern, unrelenting. They were not giving way, neither bowing nor scraping.
Ginny and Barsi were conferring in guarded whispers. I saw private discussions taking place around the table as though I were not even present, as though I were dead already, safely immured in the legend of Better World and nicely silent. But not yet, by God. Not just yet.
“We feel,” Ginny said, “that we should employ these funds now, while the market is accessible. It will only enable us to do more later. You shouldn’t trouble yourself about these things, Dr. Akimura. Trust us. We can handle them.”
It was a palace revolt.
“You can’t do this,” I thundered, pounding the table. “I won’t allow it. My brother did not create Better World and I have not devoted my life to preserving it so that a bunch of restless administrators could Havators cplay games with the stock portfolio.”
“We didn’t mean to upset you,” Barsi said, oozing conciliation. But I could read her mind, and what I saw I didn’t like. They would placate me now and later, behind my back, proceed as they wished. A bloodless coup. The head wouldn’t even realize that it had been separated from the body.
“That’s right,” Ginny chimed in. “If you really feel strongly about this and don’t think we should invest the Better World funds, then of course we won’t do it.”
All around the table heads nodded, faces smiled. Liars. Hypocrites. Did they all really think I was so old and unaware of their motives?
“Fine,” I said. “Let’s leave everything in place then, shall we? Oh, and Ginny, from now on I’d like to see quarterly reports of the Better World portfolio.”
She stared at me, caught off-guard. “Of course. But you might find them tiresome. There’s a great deal of paperwork and I don’t know if you can handle—”
“Quarterly reports,” I snapped. “Right away.” So my suspicions were correct: Ginny had already begun to deploy the money. I could hear her dismayed thoughts loud and clear.
He’s going to be difficult.
Yes, indeed, my dear Madame CFO. At least I certainly intended to make every attempt at it.
The meeting ended quickly after that with smiles all around and a great show of false fellowship. Barsi even offered to escort me back to my quarters but I shook her off.
“No, my dear. The old man wants to be alone.” And for a moment, a precious, regretful moment, I gazed upon her lovely dark face. She wore golden bells that hung from her ears and her dark braids like metal flowers. I had come very close to loving her, in my way. Despite her sudden betrayal I found myself warming to her yet again. But no. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Alone in my rooms I realized that I needed help—reinforcements. And quickly. Very soon now, the administrators would seize control of Better World and run it as they saw fit as a corporation in the business of self-perpetuation rather than the service of others. I couldn’t hold them off alone. But I couldn’t let it happen. It would make a mockery of everything I had worked toward, and my brother before me. It was unbelievable: once again I was being forced to fight for control of this blasted, sainted organization.
Rick, are you laughing?
At night when the bare branches rub against one another groaning like a poorly strung violin I think I can hear your laughter in the trees.
Memory plays tricks on an old man and the ghosts of past days waver before my eyes like old-fashioned projected movies. My parents wave from a faded frame. And there’s Narlydda, a gifted artist, and her husband Skerry, my true father. Killed by my only brother, Rick. Yes, that’s correct. The Desert Prophet was a murderer who committed that most Grecian of crimes: parricide. But that truth is hidden safely in the past along with my ghosts. I’ve seen to that. No one is alive now to remember it. No one but me. And Alanna.
And now I must turn to her. My half-sister, daughter of Narlydda and Skerry. Of all my ghosts she is the only one with substance. We have not spoken in years. But I remember her number easily and put through a call on my private, shielded line. Her message field answers: Alanna disdains simulacra.
“Help me,” I say to the orange, glowing screen. “You are the only one, Alanna, the only other who remembers …”
The years spin backward and I recall them all too clearly. Daylight came and went, the seasons moved through their ritual dance for six long years after Skerry died, and never in all that time did I receive word from Rick, whom I had sent into exile. Not that I expected it. At first I had felt incomplete without my twin, an emotional amputee. But with time I grew accustomed to that phantom ache, and Rick faded, faded until he was transparent as a specter, almost disappeared.
The Mars Colony that multinational forces had established in the middle of the century was a huge success—and, after the New Delhi spill, very popular with refugees. I half believed that Rick had joined the outflux to the red planet and for a time I took a certain pleasure in imagining him pitting his remarkable skills against that harsh, alien world, forcing it to yield to his will and the need of the colonists. That was in 2062, I think, or 2063—toward the end of the nine-year drought in the Western Hemisphere. A year of food riots, it was. At first there were so many hungry people. And then so many dead. It was a haunted year, and I was only slightly surprised when I received a letter from one whom I had come to regard as a ghost. It came in a creased, stained, old-fashioned postal envelope stamped with an address, some P.O. box in Portales, New Mexico.
The message inside was simple: “Come, Julian. I can be reached here. Join me.” The paper was yellow, almost antique in texture, and the message was the echo of some old, old dream. It was not so much a request as a summons, unsigned. But that didn’t matter. I knew who had sent it.
For days I pondered it, touched the paper, realized that Rick had sent me something tangible so that I could not dismiss him lightly. But I was not ready to deal with him. Despite the temptation to respond I forced the notion away from me and buried the letter—and my brother—deep within a file drawer safely out of sight and mind. Stay away, Rick, I thought. Stay safe, and keep us all safe.
A week later I was at Mass. General consulting on a case when I received the summons from Joachim Metzger, Book Keeper of the newly merged Mutant Councils.
“We have located your brother, Dr. Akimura. Please come at once.”
This time I moved: canceled meetings, sessions with clients, social engagements, and hopped the shuttle to California. Would Rick be there, unchanged, full of life and anger and danger, shaking his fist at the world?
The meeting hall was as I remembered, somber greens and browns stenciled along the redwood-paneled walls. A hundred pairs of golden eyes turned to gaze as I walked in. But none belonged to my brother. He wasn’t at the meeting, nor anywhere in sight, and for a moment I was relieved. He was still just a shadow at the back of my memory, a tingle at the base of my neck.
Joachim Metzger sat at the center of a long platform that had replaced the original Council table. He was a big, ruddy man with a square jaw, generous fleshy folds beside his wide mouth, and a head of curling white hair that fell almost to the shoulders of his purple Book Keeper robes.
“You said something about knowing my brother’s whereabouts—” I began.
“Dr. Akimura,” the Book Keeper said. “We know exactly where he is.”
I didn’t expect that. This Metzger was disturbingly direct. There wa onct. Thes no way to dodge his probing golden gaze. “Where is he?” I said.
