Necropath (13 page)

“So what was it you found?”

“I told you. The truth. Cosmic awareness. Suddenly, I understood.”

“I’m trying not to sneer, okay?” He pointed to his woodenly straight face. “But please tell me— you know, I’d really like to know: what is the truth, Carmine? I’m really eager to know.”

“You
bastard.”

“Okay, so I’m a bastard. I don’t believe a damned word. So convince me. Tell me: what is this Truth of yours?”

She spoke deliberately, each word as hard as steel. “I took communion. I ate the wafer and, for the next thirty minutes or more, I was no longer Carmine Villefranche. I was... unified. I shared cosmic awareness. I saw the place of humanity in the universe, the small part we are of the much vaster sentient organism.” She stopped there, eyes wide, as if she were reliving the experience.

Casually, aware of the sweat breaking out on his forehead, Vaughan said, “Who is the Chosen One?”

“She is the very centre of our Church.”

Vaughan reached into his jacket pocket. Earlier that day he’d had Genevieve Weiss’s graphic copied to the size of a snapshot. He passed it across to Carmine. “Is she the Chosen One?” 

“Hey—how come you have this?” She looked at him, suspicious.

“Like I said, I’m interested in religions.”

Carmine gazed at the pix, and Vaughan could not mistake the look of awe in her eyes. “Every two years, the Godhead chooses anew. She is the present Chosen One.”

Attempting to keep his voice even, he said, “Have you looked upon this Chosen One?”

She blinked. “Why, of course. Just last night.”

“Where? Where did you see her?”

“In church, where else?”

Vaughan nodded. He took a swallow of beer. He had to be careful, very careful. “Tell me about your religion. Its history, origins.”

Carmine finished her drink, gestured to the waiter, and ordered another daiquiri.

“It started perhaps thirty years ago on Verkerk’s World,” she said, and Vaughan tried not to show any reaction to the mention of the colony planet.

Carmine went on, “A young girl was granted a vision one day while walking alone in the mountains. She was granted communion and told to spread the word. She told colony leaders, those in authority, about a drug that would bring humanity together, eliminate the division caused by greed, put an end to national pettiness, aggression, and warfare.”

“This drug... what’s it called?”

Carmine smiled. “We call it rhapsody,” she said.

He nodded. “I’ve heard of it. It’s very dangerous. It kills.”

“Alcohol kills, Vaughan. One must not abuse substances, or they abuse you.”

“You should have told that to Genevieve Weiss and her family.”

Carmine looked at him with surprise. “But Genevieve knew what she was doing, Vaughan. It wasn’t just your regular everyday suicide. The Weiss family decided that they wished to make the ultimate sacrifice, the sacrifice of the self to the all. She is in a much better place, now. She and her loved ones have been absorbed into the infinite.”

Vaughan nodded, withholding the impulse to smile.

“Over the years,” Carmine went on, “the religion grew on Verkerk’s World. A few years ago it spread to Earth. It will gain hold, slowly. How can it hope to succeed
immediately,
when competing against so many ancient, entrenched belief systems, however simplistic they are? But the Truth will overcome, in time.”

“It sounds... interesting.”

Her expression showed feigned surprise. She spoke into her imaginary microphone, “From mocking scepticism, subject exhibits first signs of curiosity.”

Vaughan played along. “How regular are the services, the acts of communion?”

“Daily—that is, nightly. We congregate every midnight for the communion with the Chosen One.”

“Are the merely curious welcome?”

“We’re always recruiting new members, Vaughan. But if you came along, you would have to take communion.”

“Sounds like quite an experience. Where’s the church?”

She gave him an address in the Thai district of Tavoy, eastside, Level Five. “Be there just before midnight, Vaughan, or you’ll miss out on all the fun.”

Over in Sylvan Gardens, the ceremony was coming to an end, the mourners drifting across the lawns to the exit gates. The sun was going down over India. Vaughan glanced at his watch.

“You have to go so soon?” Carmine asked.

“Afraid so. I must meet someone.”

“Pity. I thought maybe you and me...”

He looked at her. “I thought you and Dolores were...?”

She raised her eyes to the sky. “You
straights!
Hey, I’m my own person. I’m adaptable, okay? Why don’t we...?”

“I’m sorry.”

“You have someone, right? So, what does it matter?
Enjoy
yourself.” She glared at him with barely concealed loathing. “Hell, and I thought I was living in the permissive age!”

“I’ve enjoyed our talk,” Vaughan muttered. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, don’t apologise.
I’m
okay. You’re missing the party, buddy.”

He wondered if, were it not for the side effects of the chora, he might have found Carmine Villefranche sexually attractive. He sincerely hoped not.

“I must go. Perhaps I’ll see you tonight. Midnight, right?”

“Yeah, sure. Midnight. Hey, and if you change your mind...”

As he walked away, she raised her fist to her mouth and said, “Subject declines offer of sexual union, but evinces interest in transcendental communion. Perhaps there’s hope for him yet.”

* * * *

THE HOLOSSEUM AT TAVOY

The sun was setting by the time the train carried Vaughan into Chandi Road Station. He forced his way through the press of humanity on the platform and was carried along the crowded street towards Nazruddin’s. Legless beggars in wheeled carts beseeched him with pitiful eyes and outthrust palms, the more able-bodied attempting to keep pace with him. He could not imagine a much greater contrast to the affluent citizens of the northern sector.

Outside Nazruddin’s he bought a vial of chora from a street kid and entered the restaurant. He slipped into his booth and checked the time. He was not due to meet Dr. Rao for another thirty minutes. He typed Jimmy Chandra’s code into his handset.

As he waited for Chandra to answer, he mimed drinking beer and Nazruddin obligingly ferried over an ice-cold bottle, self-mockingly holding it label upwards for inspection like a wine waiter. Vaughan gave the thumbs up as the restaurateur towelled off the condensation and placed the bottle on the table with a glass.

His handset flared into life. Jimmy Chandra, smiled up at him. “Jeff. How was the afternoon— stay till the end?”

“Till the very death,” Vaughan said. “How’s the search for the Jenson girl going?”

“Need you ask?” 

“It’s just that I learnt one or two things this afternoon. I know where Elly Jenson is—or rather where she’ll be at midnight.”

Vaughan recounted his meeting with Villefranche, told him what the woman had said. He repeated the church’s address.

Chandra leaned back, tapping at a keyboard. “Okay, I’ve got that.” He looked up. “And she said that the Chosen One would be at the church tonight?”

“At midnight, for communion.”

“We’re talking about the same Chosen One?”

“I showed her the Weiss graphic.”

“I mean the girl you saw in the freighter, Elly Jenson. Is she definitely the Chosen One?”

“I know what I saw, Jimmy. And anyway, it all ties in. The Church of the Adoration of the Chosen One was founded on Verkerk’s World. The communicants use rhapsody to gain so-called ‘cosmic unity.’“

“But why would this Villefranche character tell you all this?”

“Because she’s a member of the congregation who wants to spread the word.”

“Okay, okay. I’m trying to think.” Chandra tapped at the off-screen keyboard again. “Okay, this is what we’ll do. You go along as planned. I’ll have the place staked. We’ll come in, round up the congregation and get the Jenson girl. We’ll have the exits covered. Hey, Jeff, if you ever feel like joining the force...”

“Yeah, I’ll know who to apply to. See you later.”

Vaughan took a long drink of beer, ordered a masala dosa, and snacked before his meeting with Rao.

The little doctor arrived punctually at nine.

Dressed like a million Indians of his age and caste in a Nehru suit—a faded ochre evening jacket and tight white leggings—Rao had the appearance of a frail and inoffensive grandfather. Vaughan sensed, behind the ancient wire-rimmed spectacles, a mind primed with self-importance constantly on the lookout for the next break.

The doctor bowed and placed his palms together before his face. “
Namaste
, Mr. Vaughan. I received your summons.”

“Glad you could make it, Rao. Take a pew.”

“I am always interested in hearing about a business proposition,” Rao said. “Especially from sources as reliable as yourself.” He knocked his walking stick on the floor, his arthritic fingers knotted around its handle like broken cheroots.

He ordered a salted lassi and Vaughan refilled his own glass. He sipped the beer, considering his words. “I’ve heard that you’re the man to approach if something is required, some device that the authorities don’t like private citizens owning?”

Rao spread his hands. “Your information is correct.”

“I need an augmentation-pin.”

Rao looked puzzled for a second. “Ah, you mean a telepathic enhancer.”

“I mean an augmentation-pin. You can call them what you like. I’ve heard that bootleg pins can be bought, if you know the right people.”

Rao fingered his tikka spot, a splash of crimson paint on the middle of his forehead, stuck with three grains of rice. “An augmentation-pin. Ah-cha. Very bothersome. A very difficult commission, Mr. Vaughan.”

“Can you do it?”

Rao was theatrical with his repertoire of frowns and grimaces. “Well, let me see. I suppose... perhaps. Yes, it could be done. The price will be high, very high, I must warn you at the outset. And also the quality of the bootleg will not be of the quality of the precision engineered variety.”