Next History: The Girl Who Hacked Tomorrow (25 page)

charlebois
: tweet it to #variety or such

ninj98
: twitter buckles every 2 hours

jer65536
: I need 2 sleep – check back in 6 hrs

charlebois
: ditto cu2 L8R

East of Highway 17 off Camden Road in San Jose, California, a posse of four black SUVs with dark-tinted glass winds purposefully through curving residential streets. There are many trees, RVs parked beside garages, the occasional 1970s vehicle on blocks at the curb. The convoy passes a particular house slowly, surveying and photographing. At the intersection they turn around. Between the vehicles passes radio chatter, a command is given.

The lead vehicle guns it down the street. Swerves hard left into a driveway, squeals to a halt with its nose at the garage door. A second vehicle stops
directly behind, six flak-jacketed men leap out, take positions at the home’s rear stoop, automatic rifles pointed at a door leading into a kitchen. A tall hedge blocks the view of neighbors behind them.

A rapid knock at the front door, a woman answers with a tea towel and a surprised look. She’s pushed backward by dark-suited armed men who yell rapid commands, the door slams
wide, she screams. She is shown to a chair in her dining room and told forcefully to sit. The tumble of sounds as many boots cross the threshold. Other men enter through the kitchen door, weapons at the ready.

One of the intruders shows his credentials, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Spec
ial Agent Yatta-Yatta. The woman can scarcely take it in, eleven flak-suited FBI with automatic rifles are in her home.

The guy with the creds tosses large color photos on the dining room table.
A blonde girl’s California driver’s license shows this address, a smiling photo from a school yearbook, close-up of a terrified face, hair dyed white.

“Where is she?”

The trembling woman peers at the photos, looks around at the dark-suited men.

“Never saw her.”

“She’s your daughter.”

The
dark woman curls her lip. “This
blanca
is not my daughter.” Glances at the crucifix on the living room wall, inwardly thanks Jesus her three young kids are not home for this fearsome intrusion, her husband at his job with the California Highway Patrol.

“You’re Hannah Harrison, right?”

“Sophie Rodriguez, Senor.”

“Got any ID?”

“In my purse.”

“Where?”

“Bedroom.”

The clump clump of hurried boots through her house. The purse is dumped out before her, contents scattered.

“Thank you,” she says with icy dignity, regaining her composure. Takes her time extracting the billfold, places her driver’s license on the table. Cred-man slaps it on his tablet, which reads it and beeps. Displays all known criminal activity on Ms. Rodriguez, which totals an unpaid parking ticket from four years ago.

“How long have you lived here, Harrison?”

“We bought the house nine months ago. My name is Rodriguez.”

“How come the County shows title in the name of Hannah Harrison?”

“I don’t work for the County.”

A phone goes and Cred-man steps outside.
He can be heard as one end of a frustrated conversation in which his voice rises to a pleading tone. Seated at her dining room table, Sophie Rodriguez casts her eyes one by one at the men standing in her room. They find it hard to meet her eyes.

Cred-man is back, mutters the command “clear
.” The armor-suited figures depart the home in orderly and somewhat quieter fashion. Cred-man nods and exits the house. Another man is here. This newcomer, smiling and confident, speaks in a cultured tone, holding out his FBI credentials to the woman at the table.

“May I sit?”

Sophie Rodriguez nods.

“Ma’am, I am Special Agent in Charge Averill Constantine. We do regret our sudden entrance, but there is a rather delicate matter of, ah, national security at stake here. It was unavoidable.”

“Do you think my heart attack will be unavoidable?”

Special Agent
Constantine smiles. “If you would like to be checked out by a doctor at Bureau expense, we would be only too happy. We do apologize. You understand of course that our information came from State of California and Santa Clara County records. Sometimes those systems take a year or longer to fully update where real estate matters are concerned. You bought the home when?”

“In January this year.”

“Do you have the escrow documents?”

“At our bank.”

“I see, ma’am. Sometimes title companies or real estate companies delay recording. Perhaps you can give me the name and location of the escrow office? Now, is there anything I can do to make sure you overlook our visit?”

“
Do give me your card. My husband will be in touch.”

In the lead van as they depart the quiet neighborhood, the Supervisory Special Agent barks, “Did we verify DMV?”

“I did, sir,” an agent answers via radio from a trailing vehicle. “No change of address has been filed by any Harrison from this address.”

“Well
they are lawbreakers, then. Who the hell checked the tax records?”

“I did sir,” answers an agent in the rear seat. “I spoke to a clerk directly at the County offices. No sales activity within the last nine years. I cross checked that with filed title deeds. There is a Rodriguez that owned the home up to ten years ago.”

“Did you go to the title company?”

“Sir, I did not.”

“A Rodriguez sells to a Harrison who sells to a Rodriguez?”

“Find out who it is and pay them a visit. Track down what happened to the money. We need to find out where little Blondie and her mother went.”

The massive taloned hand relaxes, slowly withdraws. Tharcia stumbles backward, gapes up at th
e enormous leather-winged thing with the hard scaly body. Her mind centers on a single vision, a personification large in gospel and folkloric myth, a being seldom mentioned directly by priests, the horned, scaly, pointy-tailed satyr, crotch hung with terrifying sexual parts.

“What did you say?” The creature’s voice booms among bare trees in the large enclosure. Teeth in that
hard beak could bite her in two.

Tharcia shakes her head, uncomprehending. But her lips move of their own, clearly form the words, “Lian! It’s me! Don’t hurt her.”

Barefoot in T-shirt and black leggings, Tharcia loses control of her knees, plops on her butt. There is a frozen moment of comprehension. The winged reptile morphs to human form, again a man, dressed in slacks, polished shoes, loose-fitting long sleeved shirt. Drops to one knee beside the quivering girl, holds her shoulders in big, gentle hands.

“Lylit, is this you?”

“Lian I’ve waited forever.”

“Lylit?” Incredulity in his tone.

“It’s me Lian. Your Lylit. I have been ripped to pieces so many times.”

Arms enfold the small body, cradle her to his chest. Tharcia’s eyes roll back in her head and she passes out.

“What has happened here?”

Tharcia’s lips move, but it is not the unconscious young woman who speaks, it is another voice. “This girl did it. This poor child who you terrorized. She is
my twin soul. She hid me her whole life. I saw her quest and guided her, so you and I could be together.”

“I am under her spell. I was about to break it by killing her.”

“No! I gave her that spell. That was me. It was the only way I could find you.”

“You
did this, Lylit?”

“I was there when her life was conceived. I took refuge as her hidden twin.”

“Lylit we are united. Forever, for all time.” Gratitude rich in the man’s astonished voice.

“Forever, Lian. But I am pursued.
Lian can you make us safe?”

“I have been killing them,” he says matter-of-factly.
“They are trying to hide. You will be safe.”

Tharcia, cradled in strong arms, lifts her head. Her eyes electric blue look up at the godlike countenance. She cannot understand the language they are speaking, but when she opens her mouth, her own words flow out in the same strange tongue.

“Will you stop talking inside my head? I have to go to the bathroom.”

Arms lower her to the ground. The instant Tharcia’s bare feet touch, she runs. Directly toward the
Ladies
sign, that universal feminine refuge. She has parked herself in a locked stall, hands covering her face, alone at last, when a soft voice speaks.

“I am truly sorry.”

Tharcia screams, looks around.

“No my dear, I’m talking in your mind. There is no other way. For now.”

“In my… Can you get out of me? It is freaky weird!”

“I don’t hear what you think, only what you speak.”

Long pause from the girl on the commode. Then, “How did you get in there?”

“Dr. Munoz explained it. Your DNA. You are a chimera. But the doctor does not understand that you also have two souls. One of them is mine.”

“This is really invasive. Can you just butt out?”

“Dear Tharcia, I owe you so much.
I need to find an avatar. I’ll leave soon.”

“
An avatar? Like in online chat?”

“No. I mean a body. I have to find one.”

Tharcia gives up trying to understand. “Who are you?”

“I am Lylit. That’s my
love outside. My Lian.”

Long pause while she chews on that one. “You’re dating a giant lizard?
With wings?”

“That’s only his business suit. He has always treated me very well.”

“Business suit? WTF is his job?”

“Oh dear. You conjured him yourself but you don’t
yet understand this language.”

“What language?”

“Early Sumerian, what we’re speaking with you now. You learned it from your language course CD.”

“The label said
François Boudoir
.”

“My demons have a macabre sense of humor.”

“You have demons? What about your dude?”

“His name is Lian. My sweet boy. He has been called by so many names.”

Tharcia knows she is dreaming. No. Tripping, must be. Most likely the residue of some party drug from her early teens has picked this morning to dump from her liver.

“Names such as what?”

The feminine voice in her head continues. “Some call him Belial, the Angel of Light, Appolyon, Defender, Teacher, Deceiver, The King of Tyre. Mammon.”

“Mm. Sounding pretty Biblical.” Tharcia cannot believe she is having this conversation.

“Yes. Every mortal religion has a place for him, and many names.”

“And you’ve been dating him how long?”

Musical laughter inside her mind. “Tharcia, you are a dear. I will be happy to talk to you at length, about who we are. Lian and I have a rich history. As do you and I.”

Tharcia exits the stall, stands before the mirror, studying herself critically. Adjusts the black leggings and
Goddess Culture
T-shirt she slept in, wishing she could shower and change. She has no idea where she is. Her sense of who she is likewise has a blurry outline. The voice inside her head makes no comment.

She registers another shock to notice her hair has turned completely white. The same
length and glossy sheen, but she is now a winter blonde. On an up note, it makes her complexion appear warmer. Just to keep herself this side of sane, Tharcia’s mind reassures her it’s the harsh fluorescent lighting of the public restroom. She examines her eyes closely, searches for any traces of drug haze, of another person peering out, this Lylit. But no, what she sees remains uniquely her, the expression, the desires dreams and fears she’s lived with all her life are reflected there. She is Tharcia. Her breathing deepens, slows.

“Biblical names?” With both hands she is checking that her
head is still the right shape.
Maybe this is some kind of seizure.

“Oh yes, and not only from the Bible,” the disembodied Lylit-voice informs her. Serpent, Leviathan, Lucifer…”

“Hold up. You said Lucifer. Do you mean, as in…”

In Tharcia’s mind, a
delighted laugh. “Oh yes Tharcia. Some mortals know my darling Lian as Lucifer.”

Tharcia’s mirror
image reflects a flat, dead stare. She does not speak. Or think. Belief and disbelief pursue one another through distant corridors in her mind. A fleck of saliva appears on her mouth. Staring at her eyes in the mirror, she wills herself simply to breathe. In. Out. A parade of alphabet letters begins a merry chase in her mind, entwine in ribald song and dance, hinting the first thin edge of madness. It gradually resolves into something familiar: LGBT. LGBT. LGBT.