Novel - The Supernaturalist (13 page)

The sphere’s surface split, and a brand new Parasite appeared, fully formed, and ready to siphon life from a human in pain. It spread its arms and drifted earthward on the wind.

Stefan’s face was a mask of anguish. “All this time! All this time, I’ve been helping them. Not destroying them. Helping them to reproduce.”

Faustino switched off the projector. “It’s not your fault, Stefan. How could you know? All you saw were creatures who had destroyed your life. You fought them the same way I would have.” She helped Stefan onto the sofa. “What we need to decide now is how to continue the fight.”

“There is no fight,” said Stefan glumly. “They win. It’s over. How can I go on? It would take me ten lifetimes just to undo the damage I’ve done.”

“Not necessarily,” said Faustino. “To defeat Un-spec four you have to understand them. Let me fill you in on what my team has learned after hundreds of hours of satellite surveillance. Un-spec four are a parasitic species that feed on energy, preferably human life force, hiding their activities by feeding on the sick and injured. They absorb energy by osmosis, scrubbing it through bodily filters, then venting the clean energy. These ventings have grown to dangerous proportions because of the increased number of Parasites. Generally the Parasites split into two entities after several years, when they have accumulated enough energy, but due to your efforts, they are reproducing instantaneously and in huge numbers. Thus contributing to the energy-burst problem. It’s a vicious circle.”

Stefan’s scar stretched his mouth into the cruel facsimile of a grin. “You forgot to mention that there’s no way to kill them.”

Faustino couldn’t resist a little smile of her own. “Oh, I didn’t say that.”

She reactivated the projector, fast-forwarding to a different file. Another Parasite appeared in the light beams. This one was colorless and almost completely transparent, its starburst heart reduced to a flickering ember. “This one is dying.”

Stefan’s enthusiasm returned in a rush. “How? What caused it?”

“We did,” replied Faustino. “Unintentionally. A starved Parasite will sometimes resort to electrical energy, not their meal of choice, you understand, but sometimes there isn’t enough misery to go round. This one latched onto a uranium rod from a nuclear generator in one of our disassembling plants. There was too much contaminated energy. The creature couldn’t recycle it and it clogged up its system. This is security-camera footage; we only got it by accident. Nobody objected—after all, to them there’s nothing on the screen except old equipment. Luckily for us a new lens had been installed during a routine upgrade.”

“So all we have to do . . .” said Stefan, thinking aloud.

“Is pump them full of contaminated energy,” completed Cosmo.

“Exactly,” said Faustino, clapping her hands. She took an aluminium briefcase from under the sofa, laying it carefully on the coffee table. “This is our proposed solution.” She flipped open the case, revealing a metallic cuboid cradled in a gel coolant pack. The cuboid was connected to a digital timer. “Not very pretty, I know. But we’re not trying to sell it on the mass market.”

Stefan studied the device. “Some kind of pulse device. The police riot squad use these to knock out power in the buildings they’re raiding. They take out mains and local generators.”

Faustino nodded. “Energy pulse. Effective up to five hundred meters. The battery has been radioactively charged. Nothing serious. Safe for humans, but lethal for Un-spec four. If you could set one of these off where they live, you could do some major damage to our invisible friends.”

“Have you tracked them to their lair?” asked Stefan.

“No such luck,” sighed Faustino. “They disperse faster than we can track them. That’s what we’re working on.”

“Then we’re back where we started.”

Ellen closed the case, sliding it across the table to Stefan. “No, Stefan, we’re a long way from where we started. From this night on, you and your band have a new mission. Find out where they live, and when you do, give them a little present from me.”

Stefan took the case. “I’ll hunt them down, Professor. From now on that’s all we do. But it won’t be easy, and it will take time.”

Ellen Faustino came around the table, embracing Stefan tightly. “I’ve missed you, my young student. And I miss your mother, every day. She brought light to this city.”

Stefan returned the hug. “I miss her too,” he said.

Abracadabra Street

Ditto was torn by guilt. He was the closest thing to an adult the group had, and yet he had fled the old factory, leaving Stefan and Cosmo to make their own way out. Stefan would never have abandoned him if the situation were reversed, he was sure of it. Maybe there wasn’t much someone of his size could have done against Myishi tanks, but that didn’t make him feel any better. If anything, it made him feel worse, because Stefan had gone up against a tank to save him and Mona.

But there was another reason for Ditto’s guilt. There were things Stefan needed to know about him. Certain talents that he had. He should have confessed to his friend years ago, but the time had never been right. And he had become so accustomed to keeping his gifts a secret. In comic books, people with gifts became superheroes; in real life they became outcasts. And Ditto did not want to be an outcast from the only group of people who had ever cared for him.

Lucien Bonn had been christened Ditto by a sharp-tongued girl in the Bartoli institute. It wasn’t a very smart nickname. Obvious, really. Ditto had a habit of repeating whatever people said to him. This gave him a moment to think of a reply. Not that he was slow—quite the opposite in fact. He just wanted to be sure that whatever he said didn’t give anything away about his special talents. It was bad enough being a Bartoli baby without everyone thinking you were crazy too.
Hey, did you hear? The midget thinks he can see ghosts
. No, thank you.

Ditto’s suspicions that he was abnormal were confirmed on his ninth birthday. Until then he had hoped that he was merely short for his age. But by nine years of age it was getting pretty obvious that the arrested physical development mutation so common among Bartoli babies was beginning to affect him.

Doctor Bartoli himself had called Ditto into his office for his monthly measurements. Ditto stood inside the great man’s door, shivering in his paper jumpsuit. Doctor Bartoli liked to keep the air conditioning at forty-five degrees Farenheit. He said that cold was good for the intellect. “Well, now, Lucien,” said Bartoli, opening Ditto’s file on his computer. “Let’s see how you are progressing. Stand on the spot.”

Ditto positioned himself on a red circle in the center of the floor. Bartoli circled him with a measuring tape and cranium calipers. He hemmed and hawed as he measured each of Ditto’s limbs, his trunk, and his head size.

“Another failure,” he said eventually, slumping into his office chair. “Just like the rest. Where did I go wrong?”

Ditto didn’t answer. The doctor was talking to himself as he always did. Eventually Bartoli addressed the small shivering boy. “Well, Lucien. I am sorry to tell you that you will in all likelihood grow no taller. Your head is one quarter the length of your person; by nine years, it should be only one fifth. The Bartoli bug has bitten.”

Ditto felt his heart sink. He had been so hoping for a normal life outside the Institute.

“But all is not lost. Perhaps you have other gifts. Something to elevate you above us normal humans. Perhaps Dr. Bartoli opened a door somewhere in your mind? Eh, Lucien? Do you have other gifts?”

Bartoli was pretending that the question was a casual one, but his entire body was tense, waiting for the boy’s answer.

Ditto was only nine years old, but he was no fool. Years of smart drugs and intelligence exercises had left him quite perceptive. He knew the importance of this question. He also knew what happened to Bartoli babies who admitted to having gifts. They were moved to another wing of the Institute and observed twenty-four hours a day. They were medicated, injected, and interrogated for as long as Bartoli could hold on to them.

The doctor leaned forward in his chair. “Do you see things, Lucien? Some of the other children claim to see strange beings. Do you see beings, Lucien?”

Ditto could have told the truth then.
Yes, Doctor, I see them all around us. The blue creatures. They can see me too. Sometimes they visit. And that’s not all. I can help people. Make them feel bet
ter just by touching them.

He could have said all of that, but he didn’t, for to reveal his talents would have meant spending the rest of his life as an experiment.

So Ditto looked Bartoli straight in the eye and said: “Do I see things? Well, I saw a werewolf once, outside my window. I thought it was a dream.”

The doctor sighed. “Very well, Lucien. There is nothing special about you. As a special favor I will personally see to it that you are sent to a state school and not to Clarissa Frayne. You can go.”

And that was it. No apology. No compensation for being born a mutant. Within six months, Ditto had been moved out of the Institute into a state school, where he stayed until the age of sixteen. In all that time he never told anybody about any of his gifts. His secrets stayed secret until Stefan came into his life. And even Stefan did not know everything. But soon he would, and there would be hell to pay when his friend found out.

Ellen Faustino sent Cosmo and Stefan home in a Myishi Prestige Stretch. The luxury ten-wheeler car was half the length of a city block, and boasted a TV window, fully stocked fridge, and sofa bed. Stefan was not impressed. He hunched forward in his seat, kneading his forehead as if that could make the ideas come faster.

“Miss Faustino was right, you know,” said Cosmo tentatively. “It isn’t your fault, Stefan. You were just doing your best. How could you possibly know that the electricity was making them reproduce?”

Stefan did not respond. After saying good-bye to his old tutor, guilt and helplessness had dealt him a double blow. It was a combination that would be hard to shake.

So Cosmo did what any teenager would do. He raided the fridge, stuffing his pockets with as many snacks as he could cram in. Whatever wouldn’t fit, he ate. Fourteen years in Clarissa Frayne had taught him never to leave food behind. It was quite possible that the combination of the acid vat and the junk food would have him throwing up for the next day or two, but if he left any food behind, he would regret it for years.

Stefan broke his silence six streets west of Abracadabra Street. “Anywhere here is fine.”

“President Faustino said I was to drop you at your door,” objected the driver.

“Maybe she did,” said Stefan. “But I’m not ready to give up the location of my headquarters just yet.”

The driver laughed. “1405 Abracadabra Street. I’ve already sent the coordinates to the Satellite.”

Stefan sank even deeper into his foul mood. The Supernaturalists were no longer a secret organization. There were adults involved now. The corporations were involving them in their schemes. The next thing you knew, they’d all have dental plans and pensions.

* * *

Mona and Ditto were waiting anxiously when Cosmo and Stefan emerged from the elevator. Mona ran to greet them, but Ditto hung back, uncharacteristically quiet, without so much as a sarcastic crack to welcome the returning pair. His secret was fermenting inside him, bursting to be released.

“Where have you been?” demanded Mona, wrapping one arm around Stefan’s shoulders and the other around Cosmo. “We thought you two were in jail for sure.”

Stefan shrugged her off. “Set up the Parabola on the roof. I want it running twenty-four-seven.”

Mona stepped back from the pair as though she had been slapped. “We were worried, Stefan, about the two of you. Don’t we deserve an explanation? Aren’t we supposed to be a team?”

Stefan almost talked then. He nearly shared his burden, but the guilt and the helplessness were still too strong. “Not now, Mona. Okay? Just set up the dish.”

“The Parabola?” said Mona. “That never worked before. I don’t even know if it’s charged.”

“Just set it up, Mona,” said Stefan, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Please.”

The youth stumbled toward his cubicle without another word. With each step he seemed shorter. The group watched him go in silence.

“What happened to him?” asked Mona, when the echo of Stefan’s footfalls had faded. “I’ve seen him upset before, but not like this. It’s like his life is over.”

“Not over,” Cosmo replied. “He just has to start it again.” He explained what had happened at Myishi Tower. How blasting Parasites just speeded up their reproduction process. Three years of helping your enemies to populate the planet. The words seemed to hang in the warehouse air. Damning their actions. How many people had had their life force drained because of the Supernaturalists?

“I don’t believe it,” gasped Ditto. “Those blue bubbles are baby Parasites?”

“Not babies. They come out all grown up and thirsty for life force.”

Ditto climbed up on a stool beside the table. “It’s the energy-scrubbing part that interests me. These creatures are part of nature. Like us. Maybe we should think about what helping them to reproduce means to the ecology.”

Mona rounded on him. “The ecology! These monsters are sucking the life out of people! You wouldn’t be worried about nature if you’d ever had one sitting on your chest.”

“Hey, come on, Mona; don’t blow a valve. I’m only saying that we have to find another way. Speeding up the Parasites’ reproduction process is not good for anyone.”

Mona took several breaths, then punched Ditto gently on the shoulder. “You’re right, of course. It’s a shock, that’s all. I thought we were doing the right thing. Actually saving people. Now I don’t know, and Stefan, well, he won’t even talk to us. . . .”

Ditto walked across the table, wrapping his short arms around Mona’s shoulders. “He’s supposed to be our leader.

But sometimes we forget how young he is. Stefan will be okay in the morning, you’ll see. Now, you set up the dish. Take your time. We won’t be going hunting tonight.”

Mona sniffed. “Okay.” She turned to Cosmo. “Sorry about the dramatics. I am glad to see you back safely. Let’s go up on the roof, and I’ll show you how to operate the Parabola.”

Cosmo nodded, smiling, but Ditto slapped a thermo-strip on his head. “Absolutely not. Cosmo needs to get some sleep. Oh, I’m sure you two youngsters would love to spend the day discussing circuit breakers beneath the smog. But this young man is not properly healed from his adventure on the rooftop. If he doesn’t rest, we could be looking at a fever or even rejection. He must be dead on his feet.”

As soon as Ditto said it, Cosmo began to feel tired. Suddenly his forehead ached and his knee sent twinges of pain from ankle to hip. “Actually, I am a bit tired. Maybe I could come up later. . . .”

“That’s okay,” said Mona. “You sleep as long as you need to. Ditto is right, you’ve been through a lot. I can show you the Parabola tomorrow.”

Cosmo nodded. He would sleep now, even though he would love to spend the day discussing circuit breakers with Mona Vasquez.

After his time in the vat, Cosmo barely had the energy to crawl to his bed. Already the narrow cot seemed like home to him. Something of his own. Although his body was in Abracadabra Street, his dreams roamed abroad, stopping off in Clarissa Frayne and Myishi Tower. The vat man and Redwood morphed into one person, shaking a fist at him. A fist dripping with cellophane sludge.
Come back to us
, the mixed-up man said.
Come back, Cosmo, we’ve got a dark room waiting for you. A dark room full of sharp things
.

Cosmo woke with a start, tumbling from his bed onto the pig-iron floor. The military green blanket was tangled around his legs, and for a moment, Redwood’s insane face hovered before his eyes.

Cosmo sat still for a moment, letting consciousness get a grip on his vision. Gradually, reality overpowered his dreams. The sleep, however troubled, had done him good. The swelling had gone down on his forehead, and his knee barely hurt at all.

Once my hair grows back, I’ll almost pass for human, he thought with a wry smile.

Cosmo stood, pulling on the army-style fatigues provided by Bashkir. You could never have too many pockets, apparently. The warehouse was quiet, apart from a croaking snore from Ditto’s cubicle. To look at him, you wouldn’t think the Bartoli baby’s lungs were big enough to produce a noise like that. Stefan’s curtain was still pulled across, but Mona’s bed was empty and made. Either she was up already, or she hadn’t been to bed.

There was something else unusual. An absence of a noise that was as much a part of the Abracadabra Street warehouse as the curtains. The computer off-line. Of course it was. There would be no more midnight jaunts. No more lightning rods and no more blue spheres. People would just have to lose their life force, as they had probably been doing for thousands of years.

Cosmo poured a cup of sim-coffee from the pot. More for the warmth of the mug in his hands than the actual taste. There was another cup on the table; its chrome handle fashioned to resemble an exhaust pipe.
Mech-lube
said the letters on its face. Cosmo filled the mug and headed for the elevator.

Walking onto the roof was like jumping out of a plane. A mere building did not seem sturdy enough to stop a person plummeting earthward. Just breathe, Cosmo told himself, and don’t look down. The sun was setting now, made purple by the chemical smog. That’s why we can see the Parasites, thought Cosmo. Chemicals and near-death experiences. The trauma awakens the sixth sense, and the chemicals in our bloodstream keep it awake, in certain cases.

There was a small breezeblock hut on the roof. Squat and basic, with no luxuries except for power lines twisted through a foam-insulation-stuffed hole in the wall. On the low roof stood a mic-and-dish apparatus. It looked like an old-fashioned digital TV antennae, but closer inspection revealed three modern chip boxes soldered to its base. Obviously this was the Parabola Stefan had referred to.

Mona was inside on a plastic bench, wrapped in a foil sleeping bag. Lightweight and superinsulated, the bags had been pioneered by astronauts and made popular by homeless people the world over. Mona’s head lolled back against a large cushion with Styrofoam balls leaking from one corner.

Cosmo took a moment to study her. She was pretty, as far as he could tell, but not like the girls on TV. Pretty in a real-person kind of way, as if there were feelings behind the face.