The Pedestal (43 page)

Apparently I can afford it.

I’ve been working closely with our nexus consultant, and with his considerable help, we’re finally making some progress in moving IntelliQ towards public consumption. The programs are actually on the test partitions now, where the nexus can scan for memory leaks. This is a far cry from our endgame, though. Assuming we bridge this phase, there still remains the formidable task of installing and securing the library on our nexus portal. I’m happy to defer to our consultant for this, and I have every reason to believe he’ll pull through. IDS is truly at his mercy, because if by chance he fails, I’m not gonna be much help.

If we weren’t so close to making this all come together, there’s a chance I’d drop everything. I hate to think that I’d selfishly leave Tim in that sort of a bind, but I suspect I’d find a way to minimize the guilt. Maybe I’d buy him a set of dragon-wing placemats to complement his dining room decor.

“Hey, Wil—I mean Wilson,” Tim says, “don’t want to freak you out or anything, but I just found something I thought you should know about.”

“Jeez, what now?”

“It’s Mitzy.”

My breath catches in my throat. “Oh, scrap. Did they find her?”

“What? Did who find—wait; wrong Mitzy. I’m talking about the other one. Miss Victoria’s Secret?”

“If you’re going to tell me she’s dead, it’s okay. I already know.”

Tim gives me a blank expression. “Dead? What are you talking about?”

“Gunn’s people got her. On the day I fled the planet—I saw her dead on the sidewalk.”

“Well, that’s pretty bizarre, considering she left you a contact request four days ago.”

I’ve taken a recent liking to watching the news. I used to despise learning about the depressing state of the world; these days I devour current events like candy. I suppose, if I’m being completely honest, I’m more than a little hopeful I’ll learn something about Fiona; after all, if Grogan was to be believed, her research is supposed to be the stuff of legends here on Earth.

But I never hear anything.

I’ve been home for more than a month now, and I figured I’d be back to normal by now—and for the most part, I am. Yet as I sit before one of my Viseon walls this Saturday morning, sipping coffee and thinking that life has finally taken on a sweet hue, something threatens to rip it all to shreds.

It’s a text ticker, crawling almost unnoticed across the bottom of the screen. A woman on the screen is talking about the local reception of a recent tax proposal—I’m sure you can imagine how that story’s flavored—and I’m so busy enjoying the sweet deliciousness of my coffee that I nearly miss it.

“Two youths found dead in public restroom outside Houston. Cause of death attributed to germination of unknown seeds within victims’ digestive tracts, which later ruptured.”

Oh, no.

Moments later, Tim’s unshaven face has replaced the news broadcast on my wall. To his annoyance, I’ve called him to put his researching abilities to work on his official day of rest. He returns the favor by taking his sweet time to oblige me, poking away at his keyboards and subjecting me to some New Age gothic scrap in the background that makes me want to claw my ears out as the minutes tick by.

It’s not that I blame him for minimizing the significance of this situation; I’ve done my best to describe the horrors of the blood plants, but until you’ve experienced them for yourself—until you’ve personally witnessed the death and flowerpotting of a human being—it’s pretty hard to wrap your mind around.

“Not much more out here than what was already reported.”

“Anything about the victims themselves?”

“Like what? What’re you looking for?”

If I’m on the right track here, I believe Fiona’s little experiment slipped past Miritech’s dismantling and into the illicit drug scene. “Did they fit the profile of a drug user, or what?”

“Can’t tell from this. You know how it goes; no one wants to be the mudslinger in this type of thing. The story is the deaths, not the victims themselves.”

I don’t disagree completely, but I imagine the families of the victims would have a very different perspective on this. One thing I know for certain?

I’ve got to do something.

I’ve talked myself out of it twice now, but as they say, third time’s the charm. When I step into the police station—for the second time in my life—it’s as if no time has passed at all since Stewart was killed. The memory of his murder is abruptly fresh on my senses and I find myself tearing up before I can prepare myself to bear the burden. And my frayed nerves aren’t exactly helping. The last time I sat in a room with Rackley, he set on me like a bloodhound. Drawing his attention again—intentionally, no less—might prove to be my dumbest move yet.

I half-expect—or perhaps just hope—for Inspector Rackley to be out of the office—after all, it’s hard to inspect crimes from a cubicle—but he’s in and agrees without hesitation to see me. I’ve changed physically over the course of the last month; my morning workouts, along with a newfound appreciation for earthly portion sizes, have transformed my body into something that I’m somewhat proud of. Everyone seems to have buffed up these days, but just as that sports store lady warned, the indiscriminate increase in muscle mass looks pretty odd, and the add-on’s conflict with the night-burner has already diminished its popularity. I haven’t yet reached a state that’s noticeable to the opposite sex, but those people who have known me long enough to have some frame of reference are slack-jawed every time they see me lately.

Rackley’s no exception.

This time, there’s no question that he recognizes me—unless I’m misinterpreting his speechless moment of doe-eyed awkwardness. I explain to the inspector why I’m here and his shock only intensifies. I can’t tell if he’s disturbed by the frightfulness of my claims, or if he’s merely blown away that I’d expect him to find them credible. Bear in mind that of all the inspectors in this great city, I have the least amount of credibility with Rackley. Not only was I once listed chiefly among suspects in his little black book, I spent a fair amount of time being uncooperative back then, rather than making an effort to set his mind at ease.

When I’ve finished my narrative, which sounds startlingly fictional to my ear—and downright disingenuous, for my occasional nervous stammering—Rackley tosses his pen onto his desk and stares at me like I have a third eye.

“Mr. Abby,” he says with a sigh, “you seem to be smack dab in the middle of every nightmare coming across my desk lately.” I resist the urge to point out that the happenings of Houston are surely not landing on his desk, but his point is well taken. I smile crookedly with a shrug.

What can you do?

I leave with no real understanding of Rackley’s intentions. I’ve just given him notice that a travesty of unprecedented proportion and oddity might well scourge the planet of human life, yet even I recognize the distinct ring of implausibility in my claim. The truth is that I’m not capable of doing justice to the extraordinary potential for disaster; I’m at the mercy of Rackley’s intuition here, and that scares me. It isn’t that I don’t trust his abilities—though neither do I have any faith in them, considering I know next to nothing about the man—it’s that I don’t trust his willingness to overlook his warped—and perfectly justified—perception of me to see the truth.

As I’m heading home, I pass a bar and my step falters. It’s a dirty hole-in-the-wall, the same I once made Adrian’s acquaintance in. I have no desire to repeat my business there—the booze was nasty and the company was decidedly deadly—yet, as did Rackley, this place takes me back to before I left this planet and returned as a husk. I catch my distorted reflection in the filthy window and I’m reminded that things aren’t all bad—I look and feel better, and I’m sitting on more credits than I’m capable of burning through without concentrated effort—but life remains a lonely affair for me. It’s a depressing part of my psychological makeup, that I crave the affection of a woman so acutely.

Still, I’ve had a lifetime to accept it. Somewhere along the line, I think I became numb to its implications regarding the larger picture of who I am. I feel like that has changed—like I have changed. Since the other night, I’ve been thinking about Mitzy almost nonstop. I’m so sick of being yanked along by the leash of my libido. I’ve gotta learn how to be okay on my own. Scrap that—I’m already okay on my own. I’ve spent most of my life alone, and I’m doing just fine. I’ve just gotta remember that when it matters.

Nevertheless, I don’t care how bummed I feel—I’m not stepping foot in that skunk hole again.

I awake to an irritating trill; I’d cover my ears to wait it out, if not for a nagging sense of unease that has consistently deprived me of a decent night’s sleep since returning to Earth. I’m betting on Tim, or maybe even Rackley, but I’m absolutely unprepared for the face that lights up my wall. Literally, I mean: I’m wearing boxers, and my hair looks like I spent an hour with my head out the window in a hurricane.

“Oh my God,” Mitzy says with a breathless giggle. “I didn’t expect you to answer. I just figured it was worth a try.”

My mouth is dry and agape. “Is it really you?” is all I can think to say. She’s so alive, so beautiful.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

I don’t even know where to start here, so I just stare at my screen and breathe.

“Look, I’m sorry,” she says, her smile dimming to a prim line with every second. “This was a mistake; I should’ve taken the hint before. I just—I just wanted to see for myself that you’re okay.”

“Wait, no. I’m, uh, I’m—fine. You’re—you look so good.”

“I do?” She does. She really does. Yet I’m aware, as perhaps I have always been, that her beauty follows a completely new and unexplored tract of physicality for me. There’s a wholesomeness about her, a sweetness that digs through lust and into the soul, where my loneliness has always stemmed. I’m very aware, drinking in her image, that this is a woman who can build me up or tear me down on a level that causes me to shudder.

“Yeah, look at you.”

“Not so bad yourself,” she says. “I like the outfit.”