The Rise and Falling Out of Saint Leslie of Security (2 page)

"Take care of yourself, Leslie,” he said. “These fools don't understand how important you are."

"What's going on?"

Swatting at beads of moisture along his temple, he forced a smile. “Oh, my research is obsolete. Or I know too much about you. Maybe both."

One of the CIA's took this as a cue to slap him on the back of the head. He stumbled and his box fell to the floor.

"Time to go, sir,” the CIA said. “Someone will get those things for you.” Then they shoved him to the door. Leslie screamed and tried to thrash off the programming table. The techs around her didn't utter one word, just firmly held her down. Leslie tensed at the memory, and squeezed Tom's fingers harder.

"Relax, Leslie,” she heard him whisper. She looked up at him. Lines wrinkled deeply across his forehead. He looked genuinely concerned for her. Leslie wondered how she could feel such resentment and such gratitude at the same time.

Channel 13-39 airs coverage of the chimp murders in California. A mechanical eye zooms in on the carcass of another chimp, found dead after The Institute for Endangered Primate Adaptation received more threats from a Neighborhood Watch group, opposing their plan to integrate displaced primates into local group homes. The eye plays slowly across the sticky red gash in the chimp's head, then cuts to a woman claiming to have seen the ape stagger down her street. “I think the bugger was asking me for help, but I just don't know any sign language,” she moans. “The poor little monkey. The poor little monkey!"

The news shifts to a panel of experts discussing a Californian academic who won the Pulitzer Prize for his novel plot-generating program. Mechanical eyes shift perspectives endlessly as two animated old men and the host argue, focusing on one man, then another—a close-up of a fist, a tapping foot. One of the two experts smoothes back his cottony white hair, picks at his lavender jump suit and, in a soft, reasonable tone, says to the host; “I think we should give this guy credit, because he alone—"

"What has he done?” the host interrupts.

"Well, he—"

"I'm asking you, what has he done that is so important!” A mechanical eye focuses on the host's stern, unflinching chin, burrows up into his wide right iris.

"I'm trying to tell you! If nothing else it's of great historical importance to recreate the lost art of fiction—"

"Please!” There are smirks and titters. The vision eye pans to the lavender-suited man's nose, into a nostril exploding with long white hairs. “You're an idiot!” the host cries. “This is elitist bullshit, trying to pawn gutter literacy off on an unsuspecting public. Who do these intellectuals think they're fooling? The days of bourgeois literacy are long gone, and I say ‘terrific'. Civilization has excelled far beyond the need to scribble down make-believe stories!"

And Leslie's own story in Washington is updated by the grinning anchorman. “This amazing young woman, who we all owe so much, is to be officially proclaimed a saint!"

Before and after photographs of the attempted assassin are shown. “Notice how the brains have been boiled away there, on the left side of his head?” a news analyst says.

The anchorman cuts in. “Great marksmanship from our hero,” he quips. “And don't forget, it was found today the assassin was a member of a well-known Atheist-worshipping terrorist cult, before his details disappeared from records two years ago."

"Yes, John, and there's been some speculation that this incident could be related to the rumored sightings of the Antichrist reported lately."

"The Antichrist? An evil terrorist leader who is almost identical to our own Father Washington? Now who can really believe—"

The eye focuses on the analyst's twitching nostril as the anchor man interrupts. “Urban myth or reality? We'll let you decide."

Main-screen commercials break in to remind viewers that the War on Terror continues; to remind viewers that the quarterly Blessing Pilgrimage for pregnant mothers and their unborn is tomorrow morning; to remind viewers to vote for Father Washington.

"This November,” the narrator blares, “remember the President who has led you through these dark times for the last four years with vigor and the family values you share, the Father Washington who sleeps with a clear conscience because He has never been connected to Terror. Vote to re-elect Father Washington."

The news returns with a human interest story that developed in Congress yesterday, when translators were called in after several filibustering congressmen started speaking in tongues. “Certainly it is significant,” Saint Terry Bright says, once famous as a vision evangelist. “Although I'm not sure I know exactly what they're saying. But you see that doesn't matter..."

The movie following is based on the folk tale about Einstein and his fiddle, rosining up a light beam, challenging old Red Devil and warning him how scared he'd be to take any American souls once he saw what old Einstein could do.

Leslie had already seen the movie at least three times.

She made toast to tide her over until dinner, brought it back into the vision room, switched off the wall so that only the ads still flickered softly and sank onto the couch. Dust billowed up through the dim light from the vision wall. Channel 13-39 was the only Washington channel that continued to report Californian news. The country was simply too politically and culturally removed from the United States. It was full of greedy Asians and dirty Mexicans and anti-American movie stars. California was an embarrassment to the government. For decades, it refused Father Washington's overtures for a formal alliance. But in spite of many attempts over the years to create a New Hollywood in New York or Florida, Washington just couldn't break the American people of the guilty pleasures of California's major motion picture industry.

Leslie stared at the ads full of laughter flickering on her wall, and found herself too keenly aware it was unfashionable to take much interest in California—and by extension Channel 13-39—these days. Awareness of fashion. Was that a part of her new programming? Since the special head mem had been implanted, she'd learned to recognize its guidance. Not always. But there were hints. Memories or information that suddenly appeared. Words suddenly known. The worst was the momentary confusion when these thoughts felt like a part of her insides, as if they were organs and limbs beyond the normal biology, all moving, flexing.

Leslie always had a strong kinesthetic sense. The head mem magnified it, and attached that feeling of body movement to thought. Her memories of what it was like before the head mem were vague—or if they were clear, they were quickly forgotten—for that she remained thankful. Some dreams were better
not
remembered.

She chewed and swallowed a third of her toast, then set it on the couch's arm. She unbuckled her shoulder holster, drew her gun, set it on her lap. A beautiful weapon, much lighter than it looked.

It was a gun, a communication link and an access terminal for electronic information. Its wide barrel was jet black. It had a pad of touch controls along one side of its sleek body. A mahogany colored handle cut with tribal-like designs in black. There was a hidden slide switch on the handle's base that caused a two inch stiletto to spring out from beneath the barrel, if for some reason you had no power but still needed a weapon. Then there was the thumb ID pad, where the hammer would be on an old-fashioned pistol. The gun's power could be locked out to anyone, unless it was activated by her thumbprint. Leslie hardly ever used the thumbprint lock. She couldn't imagine Gun ever getting into someone else's hands. It was her best friend.

"Hello, Gun.” Which activated the thing.

"Ready, Leslie."

"Enter. I'm going to become one of Washington's Saints, Gun."

"Congratulations."

"Save it,” she snapped. “No. I mean shut up. I've heard enough of that for a long time."

"Response deleted. My apologies."

"I just ... don't understand. Will you help me, Gun? I know I'm thick. I know I'm confused."

"You saved the life of Father Washington, mortal manifestation of the Holy Presence, avatar of God, the Spirit of Seventy-Six made flesh. What else is there to—"

"I know, I know...."

"Then you understand. Is there something else troubling you?"

Leslie sighed, then rubbed her temples until they were red. “Why did that asshole have to knock me up?"

"Excuse me? I need clarification."

"Russell! Tommy Russell! I tested myself like you told me to, and I'm pregnant."

"This isn't a natural function of the human body? Why are you upset?"

Leslie swallowed to force herself calm. “I don't know. I shouldn't be, should I? Father Washington always blesses the unborn. And there's always a need for embryonic cell tissues—that's been all over the vision wall for weeks. And don't they develop some of the fetuses artificially for placement into regulated homes? And I've hit the lotto; I'll be Saint Leslie of Security, and collect my salary for being an honorary congressional body member and live happily ever after."

She finished eating and shut her eyes. She'd had a dream the previous night. No more than a prolonged image, really, but it assailed her now. There were men in the dream, with shovels. And they wore white aprons smeared with red. It was in a warehouse. Their stock was all around them. Tissues. And the men wore hip boots. Stepping carefully ... shoveling full great bins of .. it was slippery.... Leslie heard their shovels scraping wet cement.... She stood there, just stood, watching them work, listening to the soft noises under their feet.

She knew, sweet holy Kennedy she knew, no place like this existed, not in America, not in California, not in the Middle East. Not even in Vermont, where they threw the tissues away because they'd been cloning tissues for decades, and their barbaric medical establishment sneered at the materials nature had given them from between the sacred legs of their women. So she knew it was nothing but a foolish dream. Yet now she thought of it, and clenched a fist against her abdomen.

"Gun."

"Ready, Leslie."

"Process. What is wrong with me?"

"Please, Leslie. You know that's beyond my available programming."

"Gun, you're all I have. All right, all right. But you know what I was thinking this morning? Pregnant women who must abort for whatever reason are making the pilgrimage to Washington for the quarterly Blessing of the Unborn tomorrow. I think I need something like that, to feel better about it. But I can't make the official pilgrimage—for one thing I'm already a part of Washington. Besides, it wouldn't look right. Security would never allow it. About that—needing the pilgrimage? It's silly, isn't it?"

"Well,” Gun said lamely. “Perhaps it requires a certain human logic."

Leslie got up and shook her head until she saw pins of white light. She paced the vision room and thought about it, and it didn't seem logical to her at all. Through it all was the blurry vertigo of the head mem, roiling through an inner space.

They went to dinner at a restaurant that was an ancient, reconstructed penitentiary, which inspired Tom to tell her the complete history of the nation's death penalty. More than a little boring. She was already aware of the traditional belief—that it was the spectacle of the law, more than the innocence or guilt of any particular individual, that was of utmost importance.

They sat at a private table set in a quaint, ancient stone cell, and Tom expounded enthusiastically, engrossed in his own ability to speak. After all, she knew he didn't expect her to understand half of what he said. Leslie spent the dinner embarrassed because she wasn't hungry at all. She didn't feel like drinking, either, and they argued over how much champagne to order. Leslie lost, of course, and proceeded to get a little drunk.

It began to rain softly when they stepped up onto the street. Leslie raised her face to the moisture-jeweled light of Eighteenth Street and let the rain spatter her. This was one of the more secure areas of town, where it was not uncommon to see police patrols. Not like her neighborhood. Tom nudged her elbow.

"Look. We should move it,” he whispered. “You're going to have to start watching out for vision crews and their mechanical eyes."

She looked at him, and then around at the street, the skirted women laughing in the drizzle, their men wearing those indulgent, superior smiles like some sort of badge. The bums crouching against the wall a few yards down the street, the steam rising from the subway grates in front of them. One of those gray figures lay disheveled among the others. Leslie realized he was partially decomposed beneath the tattered army jacket; apparently the wind was blowing in the opposite direction. She began scrutinizing strangers’ eyes as they walked, but found no glowing mechanical stares.

Tom led her to the parking lot, where they rose to the roof with a lift car.

A lift car!

Tom said special considerations were made for her now that she was a saint, and she should start getting used to it. She knew how loud a lift car was from the outside. Inside the cabin, you could hardly hear it purr. Tom flew them through and over streets and back to her apartment.

Leslie led Tom across the foyer of her apartment building, past the access doors to the antiquated cleaning robot tunnels that hadn't worked since long before she moved in. She ignored the bickering armed house guards standing by the elevator in their disheveled black uniforms. She still hadn't mentioned the thing growing inside her.

In the elevator, she stared at the damp shoulder of Tom's suit until the sliding doors opened again, then quickly crossed the garbage stink of the hall to her rooms. Tom was carrying a replay he'd pulled from his glove compartment. Once inside her vision room, as she instructed the lights on and the ads came to life in a section of vision panel, he held the replay up and smiled.

"Put this in your wall,” he instructed.

"What is it?"

"A copy of the assassination attempt."