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***
It was late, very late. Even in the most advanced city, night still penetrates, and the halogen lamps burn alone, fighting their losing battles. I couldn’t sleep that evening, and the noisemaker was malfunctioning – it was supposed to be Burney Falls, all forty-plus meters of torrential spray, but the sound was cutting out at random intervals. If I had the training, I would have tried to decode these dashes and dots, make some linguistic sense out of the chaos, but no such luck. I was left to stare at the starless ceiling, my teeth grinding with every unanticipated hit of silence.
Finally my eyes closed, and I was almost there – my thoughts had wandered toward the question of hats, and which was a better choice, a fedora or deerstalker? An utterly random bit of business, because I had never owned a hat or had a particular desire to. I had enough wherewithal to muse to myself, What would the therapist say about this one? And then my cell chimed. The blue pilot light over my nightstand read 3:15.
It’s Chen. Sorry to wake you.
Chen? My tongue was furred. Someday they would have to invent a pill for that one, or some sort of spray. Instant clear speech within moments.
Just wanted you to know, I’ll be gone soon. Three minutes ten seconds, in fact.
Gone? Where?
They say the soul is at its weakest at three in the morning, so it looks like I just made it past that threshold. That counts for something, eh?
Where are you?
My place. I don’t have much time. Two minutes, forty-four seconds now. You know about appendixes?
I was climbing into my trousers, slipping on a turtleneck shirt. Human appendixes?
Seemingly useless. No one has determined conclusively what they were once used for, if indeed we used them at some point in our evolution. But here we are, using our own versions of appendixes, our vestigial talents. And what if there are more? Maybe an organ that we use every day, but we never fired those synapses in a particular fashion, or sent the blood rolling through the right vein …
If you’re in trouble, we can meet. How about you go to –
No need. Two minutes, eighteen seconds. My synapses were firing, let me tell you. They were firing.
Stay on the line. Tell me what’s happening.
Afraid I don’t have much stamina. I did what I could. Rather a failure. But they fired, for a few glorious moments, they fired. Talk to Sylvie. She’ll help you. You’ll help each other. Remember that.
I was out of my domicile, walking down the city street, scanning the lighted grids at my feet, calculating the distance to the closest incoming train – there, one on Lockhart. The rain was falling, blessed rain, usually we didn’t get much in the way of it during the fall season, but tonight it had the smell of salt and something aromatic – had they seeded the clouds with something especially fragrant? What was the occasion?
Chen, you there? I said.
I have to go. Just over a minute left. I prefer to have my last minute to myself. Old-fashioned that way. I hope you can understand.
Give me a straight answer, will you?
Sorry, Kellen is better at that. Better than all of us. Take care of yourself, young man.
And with that the connection was cut. I had reached Lockhart Rd. and stepped onto the platform, the blowers mounted just under the floor drying me with one blast of tender air. The train was approaching and its headlights were leaving a triangular wake. There were only three other people on the platform, two men and a woman, and I noted their heights, their dress, their manner of walking, stored it away with everything else. Vestigial talents, Chen, whatever you say. It was 3:19 now. Whatever was going to happen had happened.
On the train, the seats were stiff and cold – too much air conditioning at this late hour. Electromagnetic power shuttled us along with nary a bump – it was as if the entire world was moving around us. The exhibition tower was on our left, bulging under the night lights like an uprooted bulb. To the right were the lower levels, no building allowed to rise over fourteen stories high for earthquake reasons. What would it be like, waking up to the monstrosity of that tower filling your entire view? No sun, barely any sky.
Something was dancing before me – an advertisement for something new, fresh, exciting, who knew what. The projection sidled up to me, a woman with indeterminate features and an outstretched palm, fingers like daggers, blowing a kiss in my direction. The advertisement culminated in the sound of the ocean against the beach, a sound carefully calibrated to appeal to any listener, an easy resolution of bliss. Then came the ID, the price, the contact number.
The city lights continued to whip by. A curious mix of anxiety and sleepiness was coming over me. One part of me was worried for Chen, gnawing over his last words, and the other part was finally succumbing to the stress that had accumulated over the last day. I examined my bare wrists and hands, counting the tiny hairs there, summing the numbers. In the olden days they counted sheep to fall asleep – I used this method to stay awake. I was up to about one hundred thirty – almost the height of Burney Falls in feet – when the conductor announced that we had arrived at Chen’s stop.
The rain had stopped and the pavement glistened with puddles of neon yellow and red. A late-night food stand at the corner was still serving zho, and I snapped up a bowl of the porridge to eat. It was freshly cooked, scalding. A piece of sweet bean had stuck between my teeth, and I was picking at it with my hand as I entered Chen’s apartment complex. If I had been paying attention, I probably would have noticed the vehicle a few meters down from the front door, the sedan with the color-coded plates, that particular mix of red and green that signified Central.
Chen insisted on living here, on the outskirts, where the communication lines were cheaper, less reliable. I climbed the long steps to his floor, past faded posters and peeling wallpaper. Most of the posters were antiques, political slogans, calls to action, strange turns of phrase that probably actually meant something once. The East is Red. Double Your Pleasure.
At the top of the stairs, a man in an overcoat waited. When he saw me, he raised his arm, his fingers waggling, the universal sign for show ID. I handed mine to him and after a cursory glance, he nodded and snapped me a half-salute. Thank you sir, he said. Mr. Kellen is here.
Kellen – should have known. He stood at the door to Chen’s apartment, a sour look on his face. Two of his assistants were inside, just inside the threshold, casting lazy glances around but doing nothing otherwise.
Good evening, Kellen said. Your arrival is fortuitous. My men are dawdling somewhat. Did Chen invite you here?
No. He just called. Sounded like something was –
Was. Yes, that’s correct. Was. He’s not present. We have no inkling of his current whereabouts. What was the content of your conversation?
Just some – he was being odd. Said something about being gone in three minutes.
Gone. Gone. A suggestive word. Perhaps you can scan the room. Just for a few moments. Summarize your surveillance, and provide us with any conclusions you have, half-formed or no.
His precise-speak was always unnerving, I knew that was his function and his raison d’être, and it still unsettled me.
I said: And why are you here?
We received a call that a disturbance had occurred.
What kind of disturbance?
He shook his head, annoyed. Clearly whoever had contacted him had not been clear, at all. A brief interrogation of all neighboring domiciles has been inconclusive. Whoever made the call is not divulging their identity. We fear the worst, as we always must. Have you conversed with him recently, before tonight?
Once or twice. Nothing important.
Would you be willing to state that for the record?
You can run a check, if you like.
Kellen lifted a gloved hand. No need. Shall you proceed?
I stepped inside, and the assistants retreated without a sound – it was almost as if they were appendages attached to Kellen, and he had reeled them back in, as quick as elastic. I examined the state of his apartment – very much the same as when I had visited him last, perhaps six months ago. The squarish dining table had moved a few centimeters, nothing unusual about that. The slight depression in the living room chair indicated that he had been sitting there recently – given the depth of the depression, the age of the fabric, the angle of the chair to the floor, Chen’s approximate weight, and so forth, I estimated that he had been sitting there perhaps ten minutes ago. Of course someone else could have sat in the chair, but none of the faint impressions left on the floor indicated the presence of anyone other than Chen, puttering about in his outdated slippers. The slippers were arranged neatly by the chair, and I had to fight the urge to pick them up. I remembered teasing him about them once: You know it’s been medically proven that old-time slippers are bad for your feet.
If that is the case, my feet will die in luxury, he retorted.
Conjectures, Kellen prodded.
He was here. You must have just missed him, give or take a few minutes.
Taken. We were not given anything.
Sure, I said. No recent visitors. Not unless their signs were meticulously removed within the last few minutes.
Kellen pursed his lips. Removal could account for the reported disturbance.
No signs of a struggle, though.
A very efficient removal, then. Is that your opinion?
My opinion … I looked him over, the important man in his immaculate overcoat, his hair parted symmetrically, only a fraction shy of perfection in the placement of the part. Wordsmith, everyone called him. In appearance he resembled the letter P – thin and willowy in the body, inquisitive and poking with the head.
My opinion, I said, is that there are only two possibilities. He either left on his own accord, which doesn’t tie in with the disturbance complaint, or he was abducted by experts.
Thank you. We’ll leave the rest to Sylvie and the others.
Sylvie’s coming here?
She should arrive within the next few minutes.
I’ll wait downstairs then.
Oh? I was not aware that you two –
No, just don’t want to get in the way.
I see. Logical, but not completely understandable.
Is that right?
Yes, taking into account your friendship with her, although it is pure speculation as to what state the friendship is currently –
I shrugged. Maybe I just want to say hello to her in private, before she gets on with her work.
Logical and understandable. Very well. With a little flourish, he stepped aside to let me out of Chen’s apartment. As I was shuffling past him he tapped me on the shoulder. In future, please be truthful at the outset, as well.
I waited just outside the building’s front door, hands dug deep in my pockets, breathing piston-like in the cold. Across the street, the lower-level apartments had settled for the night, but even so, windows were lit, and occasionally a lethargic head would poke its way out. Maybe I wasn’t the only one with a sleeping problem. Maybe this was an epidemic that would claim us all.
Hello, Sylvie said, in a very neutral voice. She was standing behind me, bundled in a Macintosh scarf that snaked around her neck three times. In her left hand she held her standard vinyl equipment bag. Her hair was bunched up, arranged under the round cap perched on her head. Fedora or deerstalker? Maybe that was where I had derived the dream.
Been a while, I replied. Did Chen call you tonight?
Last night. Told me to come over tonight.
Tonight? The bastard – somehow he had timed it all out, down to the minute.
Yeah. On the way, got a call from Kellen – is he upstairs?
Yes. Did Chen mention me when he called you?
The corner of her mouth tightened. They have a term for people who think that the world is centered on –
That’s a yes, then. We’ll discuss that later. He called me tonight. From his apartment. Kellen will ask you to transcribe the conversation. Go ahead and transcribe it, exactly. But there’s one part you must leave out.
She shook her head slowly, as if to say here you go again. She said, Are you telling me how –
You’re mentioned in the conversation. You’ll know when you hear it. You’ll know what to leave out.
She looked down at her shoes, then up at me, then down at her shoes again. Kellen will find out eventually, she said.
Not if you’re convincing.
I’m no linguistic master – he’ll trip me up on an elision, an ellipses –
Then speak in simple, short sentences.
And if he asks me what we’re talking about now? I’m obligated –
That’s fine. But he won’t ask you immediately, and that gives us time. You’re tired.
What? Her hand instinctively rose to her face.
Bags under the eyes, depth of a centimeter. Your posture is slightly hunched, four centimeters lower than the optimum. Your stomach –
Charming, she said.
I shrugged. It’s what I do.
She exhaled, a long stream of half-smoke that disappeared within the short radius beyond her mouth. All you had to say is You’re tired.
I was explaining my reasoning –
Yes, I get it. I was listening to a recording all day, for the archives. An interview with a filmmaker.
Filmmaker?
A type of artist. He was talking about his craft. He said that once you learn the techniques, the little systems and processes behind the art, then the art loses its magic. But if you gain excellence at the craft, a funny thing happens – it becomes second nature to you, suddenly all the artifice disappears once again, and you return to the original state of innocence, where you can appreciate the art for its magic alone, its effect.
What does that mean?
Her lips drew together in a quizzical frown, the expression of a little girl. I’m not sure, she said. We only observe, we don’t interpret.
Does anyone? I asked.
Sylvie, Kellen said. He was standing in the doorway, as still as a slab. Good evening.
Evening, she said. She stood tall now, maybe a little bit on tiptoe, she was a few millimeters above her normal height.
We need your assistance, Kellen said. The rest of the team is waiting inside.
Of course. I’ll see you later. Without a look back at me, she entered the building.
Kellen continued to stare at me. Nothing ever fazed him. Conditions, settings, situations – he always behaved exactly the same, with that stilted perfection of his. Like the control in an experiment. Everything satisfactory? he asked.
No. My friend’s missing.
Mmm-hmm. True. Superfluous question on my part. Thank you for your help. Why don’t you return to your domicile? We’ll contact you should we need further assistance.
Wait. Kellen.
Yes?
Should I be worried?
That produced a response from him—he tilted his head to the left a bit. That’s cryptic of you. My non-cryptic answer: I don’t know. Good night.
He pivoted and reentered the building. Something rattled close by, and I whirled. It was the food cart, rolling away of its own accord down the street, shutting down for the night. It was now close to four, the time trains were at their lowest frequency. I waited at the platform for an unheard-of five minutes before the cross-town train arrived. During that interval, I executed a quick scan of my surroundings, for I was now on full alert. A man was surveilling me. He was being very circumspect and subtle about it, by all appearances he was sitting on the platform bench, carrying on a conversation on his cell, but by the shift of his shoulders, the way his free ear was cocked in my direction, it was clear he had zeroed me. One of Kellen’s men? Precautionary on his part? Perhaps.
My own cell chimed. It was Sylvie.
Meet me at five at the Alley. We have to talk.
Wrong number, I said, just loudly enough for the other man to hear, and hung up. The train was hurtling into the station. I boarded, the other man locating himself on the other end of the car, still laughing and having his pretend cell conversation. We were the only ones inside. The train hurtled east, towards the harbor district, leaving the stilt-like buildings and the neon lights behind. Ahead, the city was shrouded in disused darkness. I knew the car interior was vacuum-sealed, but I could swear I smelled the salt of the ocean. The man following me was reacting even more strongly, as his eyes were watering. He held up his fingers to his nose, and for an instant our gazes met. I knew at that moment that losing him would not be easy. It wasn’t a matter of pulling off something dramatic, like jumping off, or shaking him with misdirection, because the moment we saw each other I saw his nostrils flare ever so slightly. That was his vestigial talent. He had marked my scent, and he would follow it to the end.
Comments
Jonathan David Jackson
I adore this developing novel (and thank God that you're a legendarily fast typist). Now on to less important matters: where is your extended review […] Read MoreI adore this developing novel (and thank God that you're a legendarily fast typist). Now on to less important matters: where is your extended review of the latest Bond installment? Always, JDJ: The Softest Monster Alive. Read Less