The Rise and Falling Out of Saint Leslie of Security (3 page)

Turning from him, Leslie softly cursed. Tom lowered the replay and frowned.

"Well, you've been a fucking desert storm tonight, Leslie."

She wanted to hit him.
Yeah, once at the base of the neck.
“Do you want a drink or not?” She stalked into the kitchen with him close behind.

"Yeah. What's wrong, hmm?"

She pulled a beer out of the cooler in the counter then spun to face him. “Let me tell you something."

"Pull the trigger."

"I'm pregnant."

She watched him blink. “Whose is it?"

She fled to the vision room.

"Ho! Now, wait a second.” Tom followed. “What's wrong with asking that?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"You're right. I don't understand. Explain it to my stupid face."

She glared at him, suddenly shaking. Then she watched him make his face go blank. Slowly his expression flowed into something that was supposed to be concern. But it just looked—and she could feel the flexing of an imaginary arm even under her rage, as the head mem helped to find the word—pathetic.

"Hey. I'm sorry, huh? How far are you?"

"About two and a half months. I'm sorry, Tom. Maybe I shouldn't be this upset. But I was brought up..."

"I know how you were brought up,” he snapped. “Daddy's little girl. That kind of Vermont morality won't get you anywhere here in America, and you know it."

Leslie clenched a fist. Tom knew better than to bring up her father. Just the mention of him terrified her, and that terror fueled a rage that came from somewhere deep beneath the blanket of her head mem. It wasn't that she remembered him—she couldn't even conjure up the outline of his face. It was more the absence of any concrete memories that scared her, the way she was frightened walking through a dark room as a child, imagining all the things that were right there around her, but hidden and dangerous. She knew she'd lived in Vermont, in the Adirondack Mountains, with him. Tom had told her that much. And that he was not someone she wanted to remember.

Tom would tell her little more than that, and what fragments of recollection were left in her were not clear thoughts at all. They were ingrained in her body instead, and entailed in her anger. Images occasionally jutted to the surface of her mind like dark rocks just managing to emerge briefly over the surf at low tide, only to be submerged again. The cool polished hardwood floor beneath her shoulder blades and her ass. The reassuring feeling of a hot bath in the master bathroom, the water cleansing her, the salty taste of tears. She couldn't say any more whether these disjointed, impermanent childhood images always existed on this sensual level, or if this was entirely an effect of the head mem. But they always tightened her throat, and the muscles in her shoulders and abdomen. Then she would feel the now-comforting sense of motion that marked the head mem's operation. Numbing her. Smothering, a blanket over a fire. The rising tide over dangerous rocks.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I mean I was only joking. Honest, Leslie, just kidding.” Tom set the replay on the arm of the couch, took her fist and kissed it. He tugged her closer, drew her into a hug. When she wouldn't respond he released her. “I swear. Don't you ever go anywhere without that fucking gun? It drives a hole right through me."

"Would you rather it blast a hole right through you?"

Outrage wrinkled up his face, and, for some reason, it looked so abruptly funny she wanted to laugh. She allowed a small, tight smile. “All right,” she said. “I won't blast you."

His face and shoulders relaxed. Then he smiled too. “One of these days you're going to accidentally activate that little knife thing on your gun and slice my belly open, you know. You are.” He grasped her arm. “Listen, Leslie. I didn't mean to seem insensitive. I'm just trying to understand what you're feeling."

"I know. I guess.” She disengaged. “Beer."

"Really,” he said, taking the bottle she held out to him. They stared at each other. “Really,” he repeated. He took a sip, smiled, then retrieved the replay and pushed it into the slot in the vision wall. “You'll enjoy this,” he said, then he sat down. He brushed breadcrumbs off the arm of the couch and shook his head. “We've got to get you out of this building, too. I've never been in a project where those old cleaner robots actually work, you know that?” He turned to her. She still stood, watching him. “You want me to make an appointment for the abortion? We could probably do it right now.” When Leslie didn't reply he reached into a pocket and produced his phone. He spoke to activate its memory. “This could be all over within the next couple of days, with no one the wiser. You're healthy, and the tissue's medical and pharmaceutical value is likely to be high."

Leslie took a step toward the couch and said, “You asshole."

"
Now
what did I say?"

"Just go away."

"Leslie..."

"Go home, Tom. I fucking mean it."

"If you would just tell me what the problem is—"

"I'm just not in the mood for this. I've killed enough people this week."

"
What?
Big fucking deal; an Atheist Terrorist and an unborn fetus."

"Get the Red Hell out!"

Tom rose from the chair. “You can't talk to me like that, Freeman."

"Oh, I just did. I knew that Atheist as well as I know this baby."

"It's not a baby yet, just so we're clear on that."

"And maybe he wasn't the monster everybody's making him out to be either. I don't even understand why he wanted to kill the President."

"Why do they ever?” Tom sneered at her. “Wait a second. What the Red Hell are we talking about here, anyway? Atheists or unborns—"

"Get lost, Tom. I mean it. I want to be alone."

His face went purple. “Sure. Anything you say, Saint Leslie. You fucking bitch. Next time you want to get laid why don't you use your Gun, huh?” His lip curled with something like satisfaction. “That reminds me. I hope you haven't forgotten you turn in old Gun tomorrow. Saints are not guards, though guards can become Saints. So you'd better give it its final blow job tonight, honey."

Shaking with rage, Leslie followed him to the door. “Just go away."

"It's been a pleasure,” he said as he backed out.

She slapped the button that locked the door then stumbled to the couch to lie face down. She tried to cry. But since her childhood, it had been too difficult for her to mellow anger into hurt. Now she just glared into the dusty cushions, her eyes barely moist enough to blink.

"Gun,” she said. Then she rolled to her side, drew the weapon, and said, “Gun. I mean, ‘Hello, Gun'."

"Ready, Leslie."

She hesitated. Looking away, she muttered, “I want information. Can you tie in somewhere to find out what group the man I killed belonged to?"

"Sure. But why, Leslie?"

"I guess I don't know. Something Russell just said. I keep thinking about it. I want to know who I've killed."

An Atheist and an unborn fetus. An Atheist and an unborn.
“Maybe it's just spite. I don't know. Why do you care? Do it anyway."

"Yes, Leslie. Scanning."

They were quiet for a moment, then Gun said, “Ready, Leslie. Do you still require this information?"

Leslie felt an imaginary arm in space, an extra hand guiding her, grasping at words lining her mind. “Is America still free? Look, for the record, we both know that Washington is the mortal presence of the One and True, and that God is on our side. But it is still considered unholy to outlaw minorities who disagree. In this case, Atheists. About whom I want information listed, Gun."

"Still, I am programmed to allow every opportunity for such a request to be rethought."

"List it, Gun."

"Les, you may not understand what you are getting into—"

"Gun!"

"Okay. They call themselves the Underground Sons of Man. More?"

"Of course."

"They stay consolidated through a headquarters thought to be located somewhere along the northern border of the country, perhaps near the southern boot of Vermont. The attempted assassin's name was Jeffery Calvin. He was known to belong to a chapter in Boston, just on the edge of the renovated area around the museum districts, until two years ago when the government lost track of him. More?"

"More, Gun. Do I have to jump on you?"

"It would not hurt. I can give you a pretty complete list of members of cells in any of our thirteen states you wish."

"Go on. Calvin."

"Calvin had a brother named Roger—"

"Where is he?"

"I have his latest address and phone sequence. He was also linked to the Boston chapter, although—"

"Stop. Save all this, Gun. Want a—I guess I'm a little upset. I almost asked you if you wanted a drink."

"No, thanks."

She raised Gun and re-holstered him. Then she lay back on the sofa, thinking about the Boston chapter of Atheists. And, strangely, she wondered what the dead man's brother looked like.

Later, she sat up and used the remote to start the vision console. The screens lit up with the replay Tom had left, and the ads shrank to the left corner.

There was the procession down Pennsylvania Avenue, the crowds, Father Washington in the center of it all, riding in the open ground car, riding among his people, riding home from his conference with the ambassadors from Maine and the United Dakotas. Around him, the deafening roar of his admirers. The emerald, glowing mechanical eyes of vision reporters in the crowd. Guards in the car. The zombie-like agents pacing them. And the parade moving into Leslie's sector. Leslie, in the crowd, the flash of the rising laser pistol, Leslie jumping, running forward and yanking out Gun and firing and still running, unable to stop, her face contorted by adrenaline into a contradictory mask of fear and ecstasy, the crowd shattering in confusion like glass as a man's head boils and explodes, spattering the President's still moving car, and then Leslie falling onto the still-moving body as it writhes to the ground, and hitting the pavement with her shoulder.

Leslie watched it all, then backed the replay. And watched it again. Then again. And finally, simply kept it on repeat until she fell asleep.

The local news is filled with images of Saint Leslie mania. Mechanical eyes across the United States capture crowds of chanting demonstrators, waving flags and banners. A fat teenager grins wildly with his friends, blowing kisses into the eye filming them. “We love you, Saint Leslie! You are so hot!"

Four Experts appear via video links in squares across the screen, to talk about the Pilgrimage For the Unborn. “Of course abortion is evil,” the man in the upper left says, his bald head shinning, jowls quivering. “Don't you see? That's what this whole ceremony is about. Father Washingtons throughout our nation's history have fought this terrible scourge for centuries."

The younger man in the square below him adjusts his bow tie, shaking his head. “How can blessing the sins of the poor and the immoral possibly be—"

"Now, the gentleman from New York is not letting me finish—"

"Well then, finish. How can the ritual absolution of the sin of abortion uphold the teaching that the act is an evil—"

"The young commentator from New York is playing word games,” a thin, bearded man wearing a tinted monocle interrupts. “He already knows that abortion is illegal in our country. He is already aware abortions can be absolved only in very specific, special circumstances. He already knows that the very life of our present Father Washington was saved by stem cell technology when he was an infant. He knows how carefully stem cell tissues and abortion are regulated and monitored, to glean whatever small good to be found in circumstances that would otherwise be sheer tragedy. What would our friend from New York have us do? Legalize cloning to provide therapeutic tissue, even though it is clear in the Holy Bible, from Genesis to the Gospel of Luke to the Book of Revelations, that to clone any flesh, even embryonic, is an abomination under God? Legalize cloning, like the barbaric Heathens of Vermont and Europe and Africa?"

The news continues with a noted historian who has proven beyond any shadow of doubt that legendary tele-prophet, Pat Robertson, had foreseen a series of earthquakes across the world, which were a result of homosexual groups visiting Disneyland.

Mechanical eyes pass over the steaming, disemboweled corpse of a man found by neighbors inside their barricaded community, as the anchorman recites an update on the War On Terror. “Alert status had risen to the level of Melancholy Angst, when a carload of teenagers were detained while trying to cross the border from Vermont, where there are many known Atheist and other terrorist cells. The Wars on Clones, the Poor, and Biological Weapons also have seen heightened alerts today. Officials have still not determined any link to last night's disemboweling here in Washington, but investigation continues."

Father Washington addresses the nation before the commercial break, his silver hair shining in the morning light from the Oval Office window. “All Patriotic Americans should be reminded to be on the lookout for unusual behavior among neighbors as well as strangers. We are the chosen people, and it is our duty to God to destroy this Evil in America and around the world."

Announcements follow: The annual September Eleventh Rebel Day Celebration is just a week away! Come to New York City for the Rebel Day Parade! Show your patriotism and join the party! Remember to drink responsibly and have a safe revolution!

A group of mechanical eyes smile and wag their index fingers. “In these dangerous times, isn't it important to stay informed? Our crack reporting teams are out there every day, bringing you the Truth. Watch your number one choice for local news, and remember—mechanical eyes can't blink. Trust the eyes that never blink...."

On Channel 13-39 there's an old Hollywood remake of the classic film about the defeat of Satan in Babylon. One of the greatest avatars of Christ, the Son of Bush, consubstantial with the Father who had strode the desert with a thousand points of light, returns to the Evil Babylon to destroy Satan's work, as God and His chosen people have done again and again for thousands of years. To remake the desert into a lush Eden, and to make the world safe once again for Free Trade and Democracy....