The Rise and Falling Out of Saint Leslie of Security (25 page)

He finally twisted to look up at her, then his gaze flitted in Roger's direction. “The Atheist?” he said. “He's nothing. Why are you so concerned with—” Leslie watched him try to pull off the old trick with his face, making it go blank. But it didn't fool her anymore; she saw the currents of jealous suspicion that lapped and pooled there.

"An Atheist and an unborn.” She smiled at his torn mask.

"Your taste has gone to Hell,” Tom said.

"Make sure he gets away and you can stay alive—and you can have the credit of bringing me back to Washington."

They stared at each other for the space of four deep breaths. Then Tom turned to Washington. “Mr. President?"

For the first time, Father Washington acted truly angry. “I don't give a damn about that little man. If that's what Leslie wants, let her have it."

Tom nudged his lapel with his chin and whispered orders across the security channel. When he finished he looked at Roger again. “What's wrong with him?” he said. “Why isn't h—"

"Roger!” Leslie yelled. It shook him out of his daze. His arms had begun to shake; the whole Styrofoam cooler was quivering. “Roger, you need to get out of here. It's safe for you to go. But you need to leave now, right away, before they change their mind or some Guard screws up.” She pushed harder with the blade. “You know somebody always does."

Roger shook tangles out of his right eye. “I'm not leaving without you, Leslie."

"Yes you are, Roger. It's the only way. You have the most important thing to me in your hands, and you know what I need you to do. Please. I'll be back. I'll find you.” Even from a distance she saw the depth of his frown.

"I thought that we ... that we were...."

"We are, Roger. You've been much more than a good friend. But I need you to do this for me. I'm begging you."

His eyes dulled focus and turned away from Leslie's gaze. Then he nodded, looking to her as if a horrible weight had spread across his shoulders. “I'll take care of it for you, Leslie. Don't even worry for a second.” He turned slowly, but once he started walking he disappeared almost immediately in the crowd.

Meyer and two other security guards were on her before she'd turned back to Tom. She saw blood caking in the rough line of Meyer's goatee, fine pieces of stone crushed into the red of his grated cheek, then her vision whirled as they flung her down beside her father. She didn't struggle. She was prone in a forest of arms and knees. She raised her head enough to watch the street, where crowds still swarmed, bolder now the shooting had stopped. There were guards pushing hippies and Revolutionary soldiers back, shaking their guns in the air. Leslie searched the edges of the crowd.

Someone cuffed her roughly—the edges cut into her wrists. She heard Tom roar at the other guards with hoarse indignation. “This is Saint Leslie of fucking Security, you assholes! What the Red Hell do you think you're doing? Come on, have some respect.” Leslie had to quell another surge of sympathy for him.

Lying there, she did her best to search through the crowds around them. When she found him she bit her lip to keep from breathing out something like laughter. He'd escaped the slaughter. And he was grinning at her once more, his boyish face a white saucer full of pennies and two bright, self-lubricating emerald cameras.

Leslie grinned too.

They dragged her to her feet and she looked around at the angry and excited faces surrounding her. Meyer was closest, still covered in blood and dirt. Sweat dripped from his forehead and started to mix with everything else smeared on his face. Jefferson was among them too—she could smell the decay of his breath. She couldn't see Tom. When she looked back toward the crowd, the red-headed mechanical eye was gone.

"You look like a Desert Storm, Meyer,” she said. Someone jerked her wrists in the cuffs, sending a razor through her nerves.

"Don't worry about me,” he said. “I'm fine."

She would have shrugged if it wouldn't have chewed at her bound wrists. She realized she was still grinning. “Good thing Guard Russell was able to finally find me, huh?"

Meyer's eyes tensed to trembling slits. “Let's go, Leslie. We're taking you back to Washington."

"It doesn't matter where you take me.” She noticed that the sun was shining. She looked up, squinting. “One heck of a parade this year, wasn't it?” Meyer didn't answer her.

After they had pushed their way a few steps through the crowd, he said, “By the way. What was in the cooler?"

Leslie's grin widened.

On Channel 64 the latest raid by DC police into one of the scrap towns is shown, mechanical eyes jostling at the charging officers’ backs. Fourteen homeless are arrested, then a grinning cop lets out a whoop. “We're right there. We're right on the edge of winning the War on Poverty, baby!” Officials appear to assure the public there are no known links to terror associated with these arrests, but that investigation would continue.

Alert Status is lowered to an Irritated Indignation.

Mechanical eye footage mysteriously obtained during the Rebel Day Celebration in New York City is shown for the thirtieth time: As the eye reveals Washington talking with His twin, then the confusing violence that follows, commentators parse the events. “It's a mind-blowing revelation, Fred, there's just no other word to describe it. We can clearly see here Father Washington facing the Antichrist outside a Manhattan cafe, who looks like His twin—"

"His clone, Walter, His clone. We find this Father Washington, whom we've trusted for so long, is negotiating with a terrorist, and then we find the terrorist just happens to be His secret illegal clone. It's just unbelievable."

"And here comes the laser fire. We see what appears to be a major fire fight between Security and what we could only imagine must be Atheists...."

"Another stunning revelation occurs when we see that Saint Leslie of Security is indeed still alive. In this dramatic shootout Saint Leslie assists in apprehending the terrorist leader and exposing the circle of corruption in Washington. And then bang, there it is, her own organization have thrown her to the ground!"

"It's unbelievable, just unbelievable."

"Official sources have said there was only minimal collateral damage from friendly fire, but it was all the confusion of the moment that caused guards to take Saint Leslie briefly into custody. The arresting security guards have been suspended and are under investigation."

"We should note, Walter, recent advertising campaigns centered around Rebel Day encouraging citizens to be heroes and assist local authorities in the War On Terror actually paid off with dozens of arrests this year."

"That's true, Fred, but this Roger Calvin character, that SOM assassin's brother, hasn't been found yet."

"Don't worry, it will happen soon. Officials reported that an unemployed hairdresser named June Khrest, who dated Calvin before she learned about his affiliations, has provided leads for his capture."

"She's kind of cute, too, really nice breasts. Let's run that tape, where she explains why she contacted the police."

June stares into the camera, eyes red, her hair dull and tangled. “When he showed up again the other day,” she says. “I knew I had to. I mean, he'd always acted so strange and, well, sometimes you just have to do the right thing, I guess."

"She'll get a good check from the city in gratitude for her selfless act, Fred."

"I'm sure she will. And we're waiting for confirmation on the rumor she sold the rights to her story to Channel 13-39."

Late Morning with Serena Pee follows the news update.
Serena, America's happiest host, beams as vision zooms in on her flashing teeth, her glistening crimson lips. “Please welcome our very special guest,” she gushes. “Saint Leslie of Security!"

Applause shakes the studio as Leslie walks across the set. She wears a black skirt and a stylish sleeveless blouse. Her hair is cropped short. Serena stands and clasps Leslie's hand, then they sit and wait for the swelling ovation to subside. “You're looking good, girl! Isn't she looking good?” More applause, interspersed with lascivious whistling. “You simply must tell me who is doing your hair!"

"Thank you, thank you.” Leslie smiles.

"And you've been through so much. I don't know how you do it. I mean, you really look great!” Serena pauses, and then lets her expression become serious. “Now I want to start with some of these strange rumors we've been hearing. What do you have to say about the story that you have some kind of miracle child—” She turns to her audience, holding up her hands, then gushes on. “What are they saying, what are they saying? Some kind of immaculate birth, or unborn birth, or rebirth, or something?"

"Well I can't be held responsible for the stories people come up with."

"Aren't they saying the baby is destined to reunite Vermont and America?"

Leslie shrugs.

Serena Pee bobs her head up and down and smiles. “Yes, yes, and bring all the nations of the continent back together and restore the age-old majesty of the United States, and—"

"That would be nice, wouldn't it?” Leslie says. Scattered laughter rises from the spectators.

"Oh certainly, certainly. But enough about that. What is Saint Leslie up to now? I'm hearing good things about you, girl. You've moved to a better neighborhood, gotten your first check from the Congregation of Saints...."

"Really, Serena, I'm just relaxing and looking forward to things just calming down a little bit."

"What about this Impeachment and Resignation Ceremony? Are you looking forward to that?” Serena looks again to her audience. “For those of you who live in a cave and don't know, there's going to be a gala ceremony to mark the disgrace of The President, and his formal removal from the canon of divine leadership. They set up this table, you see, and ritualistically re-enact the Last Supper. Key cabinet members play the roles of various apostles. Andrew Jefferson, Security's Head, will be cast as Peter—you know, the ‘three times deny me’ guy—” she turns to Leslie. “And I hear that your old boss, Guard Tom Russell has been selected by congress to play the part of Judas Iscariot. That must be gratifying."

Leslie takes a deep breath but doesn't reply. She gazes off to the side of the stage.

"You know these newfangled formal traditions fascinate me,” Serena continues. She turns again to the audience. “Really, I find it most fitting Father Washington's final task in office is to act out the sacrifice of his own body and blood. Don't you think? Don't you think?"

There's a burst of approval from the crowd—they hoot and whistle, they raise up their hands and applaud. When the noise finally subsides, Serena turns expectantly to her guest, licking her glistening lips. Saint Leslie of Security hesitates. Her face goes blank. Then she smiles. “Well I ... I mean.... “She shrugs. “Yes, I'm sure it'll be a lot of fun."

In her sleep she stands on the rocks that jut from the sands of low tide. She's even gotten out of the habit of searching for that lost tide, that watery blanket over her memory. The smells assault her. Amniotic and sexual, the rusty smell of blood, her own acrid sweat—cinnamon and musk, now not only reminding her of her father, but Roger too. When she's awake it's enough to know Everett has been locked up, Roger has escaped, Washington and Russell have been disgraced. But in her sleep, low tide fills her with terror. She writhes in the snarled mass of her wet sheets, and the fear is the sting of her father's fist, the choked, shadowy silence of Tommy Russell, the bursts of light set off when her head bounces off her father's floor. Darkness, broken and desperate fingernails, the complete loss of control over her body. No revenge could ever compensate this terror. Yet even while she still feels unsated, she wonders how Tommy Russell is healing.

One day she will run again. The thought almost feels like the old stretching arms of the head mem inside her. Maybe she'll search for Roger and the fetus. But even that's uncertain now, because if she found them she might not be alone anymore.

Her solitude is all she has. It doesn't seem like too much of a sacrifice. And it gives her the only control she has ever known. She stands on the jagged black stones of her memory and she knows, for the first time, what really belongs to her.

Although new on the science fiction scene, Andrew Tisbert has been nominated for the
Sidewise Award for Alternate History
, alongside such luminaries as Harry Turtledove and Paul Reed. His fiction has appeared in
Paradox Magazine, Talebones, Son and Foe
, and the L. Ron Hubbard
Writers of the Future
anthology.

Originally from Vermont and Upstate New York, a series of dubious decisions left him currently exiled in Los Angeles, where he divides his time performing as a flutist in an alternative metal rock band, finishing his next two novels, arguing politics, and working with the homeless.