Apocalypse to Go (18 page)

“Are you all right?” Ari said. “You’re quite pale.”

“Yeah, just grossed out. I don’t know why I was surprised that leopard people would be carnivores, but I got to see inside one of their meat lockers. Yuck.” I sat down at
my computer desk. “I’m going to organize my thoughts and send off a report. These procedures, they don’t produce stable data. You’ve got to write it down before it fades.”

Writing the report banished the last of my nausea. Once I’d finished, Ari asked me what I’d seen. I described the flashes of images and gave him more details about the species.

“She has three pairs of breasts?” was his first comment. “They must be rather small.”

“Sometimes you’re just a regular guy, aren’t you?” I grinned at him. “Yeah, they weren’t what I’d call big boobs. A pity, huh?”

“I can assure you that I wouldn’t want to get anywhere near this female. Especially when I consider the effect she had on you.”

“Wise, my darling, very wise. I sure wouldn’t be interested in the guy, either, even with the look I got at his junk.”

Ari opened his mouth to speak, then shut it firmly. From his SPP, I picked up a strong wave of curiosity.

“Hah!” I said. “You’re dying to ask me how big he was, aren’t you? Guys always wonder about size.”

“Nothing of the sort!” Ari turned as scarlet as a sunset.

I decided to be merciful and changed the subject.

T
HE HIGH-PITCHED BEEP OF
my landline answering machine woke us at eight Tuesday morning. I got up and found that Y’s secretary had called and left code on my landline machine. Y was requesting a trance meeting at ten AM my time. Ari insisted I eat breakfast, and I managed to choke down two of his black and crunchy attempts at pancakes. By then it was only nine-thirty.

While I waited for my appointment with Y, I sat down on the couch and noticed, on the coffee table, the photo album that Aunt Eileen had put together for Ari and me. I was leafing through it, looking for snaps of Michael and Sean, when Ari wandered in, wiping his greasy hands on his jeans.

“Family pictures?” he said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Aunt Eileen believes in them like a second Bible.”

He sat down next to me on the couch, put one arm around my shoulders, and looked at the page I had open: a portrait of my smiling mother who was, at that time, very pregnant with Michael. Opposite were a couple of snaps of myself at ten with my father. Ari reached over and pointed at the photo of me and Dad standing in front of a tree in Golden Gate Park.

“You were not a fat child,” he said.

“I look fat to me,” I said. “Especially in those white shorts.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

I found his scorn comforting. I studied the photo and had to admit that as little girls go, I wasn’t as wide as I’d been remembering.

“The caption calls you Noodles,” Ari said. “Your nickname, I assume.”

“Yeah, it’s from the Irish version of my name. They pronounce it Noola, but it’s spelled N-u-a-l-a.”

“I see what you mean about Irish spelling.”

“It’s fierce. I’m glad Mom Americanized my name.”

“Yes, it’s doubtless for the best.” Ari pointed to the man in the photograph. “That must be one of your O’Brien uncles.”

“No, that’s my father. We all look alike, don’t we? Very Irish.”

Ari nodded and seemed to be about to say more when the landline phone rang—two rings, then nothing.

“There’s my signal.” I got up and went to my desk to fetch a notebook and pen. Ari watched me with a slight frown.

“How can you write if you’re unconscious?” he said.

“I’m not really unconscious, that’s how. Trance is different. My body automatically writes stuff down because it can see the notebook even if I can’t.”

Ari looked stricken, as he usually did when I admitted some truth about the way I operated.

“I’ll just go into the bedroom,” I said, “so I won’t disturb you if you want to work.”

The leopard women loomed large in the trance conversation, after Y and I had gone over the week’s events. I
wondered if their spectral appearances could be considered an attack or a spying mission to set up an attack.

“I’ve never even heard of leopard women before,” Y told me.

“I was afraid of that,” I said. “I’ve been wondering if Spare14 might be able to help. Would you object if I asked him?”

“Not at all.” Y’s image looked profoundly sour. “I suppose if we’re going to be forced into liaison, we might as well begin getting used to it.”

“Forced?”

“The higher-ups are extremely interested in his offer. That’s all I can say at the moment. At some point we’ll need to set up a face-to-face meeting.”

I remembered Ari discussing command jealousies.

“Yeah, you will have to,” I said. “His talents just aren’t in the same league as yours. He’ll have to talk with the exec board physically. There’s no way that he could communicate in trance like you do.”

Y smiled. He almost purred. He looked down at a notebook that materialized in his image’s lap—his agenda for our meeting, I assumed. “One last thing. This business of chanting yourself into a full trance? Don’t do that again without more research.”

“Don’t worry! I won’t. What about the mirror procedure?”

“That does seem safer, but be very careful.”

“I’m still not sure if the leopard women really exist, or if they’re some kind of dream image.”

“It could well be the latter. A great many strange beings live underwater in the river of consciousness. The Collective Data Stream flows from our deep, deep past, and upon it, in boats built of word and image, bob many a strange secret.”

I felt my hand writing this bit of Y’s philosophy down, not that I knew why.

“On the other hand,” Y continued, “I’m remembering the report you filed about the attempted burglar. Didn’t you say that he had black tattoos on his face?”

“Yeah, and so did the guy I saw.”

I called up his memory image from the mirror work and extruded it so Y could see it, too. The leopard guy had spotted fur all around his male equipment, and black, tattoo-like blotches marked the pale, hairless skin of his stomach. Y studied the EI for a moment, then nodded.

“Definitely leopardine rosettes,” he said. “Have you ever seen one of those hairless house cats? Some of them have patches of skin that are the colors their fur would be if they had fur. The calicos, in particular, are quite mottled.”

“I hadn’t realized that. The leopard women I saw in trance had rosettes on their necks and shoulders, too.”

“Well, there we are. It’s quite possible that those spots aren’t tattoos at all, but natural markings, reminders of their evolutionary past.”

I considered the memory image for a moment more, then replaced it with my memory of the burglar on our steps. Seeing the two images one after the other confirmed my feeling that the burglar had been the same guy, though a lot more modestly dressed. I sent both images back to my unconscious mind.

“The experience really scared me,” I went on. “It made me wonder if I’m a Chaotic at heart or something.”

“Of course you’re a Chaotic. That’s one reason you’re so valuable to the Agency.”

I felt my physical mouth drop open. My image mimicked it.

“Didn’t you realize?” Y registered surprise. “It’s something you share with your colleague, Jerry Jamieson, another true Chaotic. It’s your very affinity with Chaos that allows you to spot it when it obtrudes into our world. Like the strings of a harp, you both vibrate when someone plucks the correct—” He hesitated. “Well, perhaps I should start over with that metaphor.”

“Don’t bother. I get it. But I’ve sworn to serve the Balance, and I will. I’ve dedicated myself to Harmony.”

“Of course. I know that. Harmony is not a natural state, that balance point between Order and Chaos. We all must strive, each from where we begin, to reach the goal of true Harmony.” He smiled briefly. “The Agency needs you, Nola, but you need the Agency as well.”

With that we signed off. I collected my pen and notepad and returned to the living room. Ari was still studying the photo album. He shut it and tossed it onto the coffee table.

“All done?” he said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Do you think I’m an essentially chaotic person?”

“Of course you are. It’s part of your charm.”

“Sweet, but seriously—”

“I meant it seriously. I suppose that I’d have to describe myself as standing on the Order side of the line. Maybe that’s why we make a good pair. Opposites attract.”

I tensed and waited for the M-word to appear.

“I’ve got work to do before we go to your aunt’s.” Ari got up. “I’ll just take my laptop into the kitchen.”

I relaxed. In the doorway he paused, glanced back at me, and said, “Marriage.”

I yelped, he chortled. The scum!

W
E ARRIVED FOR LUNCH
at Aunt Eileen’s to find not only Al sitting in the living room, but Father Keith as well, wearing his friar’s robe and drinking a small whiskey with Uncle Jim, who was drinking a large one. Al had restricted himself to mineral water. Brian was sitting on the floor near his father’s chair with a bottle of cola. Since the house was overheated as usual, Ari took off his jacket and revealed the Beretta in its shoulder holster.

“What are you drinking?” Uncle Jim said to him.

“Nothing, thanks.” Ari sat down in the last available chair.

All of the men looked so solemn that I felt like I’d wandered into one of those depressing movies about Ireland during the Troubles. In the next scene someone would rush in and announce that Sean and Michael had been arrested by the Black and Tans. I dismissed this thought as a stupid fantasy and hurried down the long hall to the kitchen.

Aunt Eileen, dressed in black toreador capris and a pink blouse, and Sophie, wearing jeans and one of Michael’s black Giants T-shirts, were arranging a buffet on the round maple table. Sophie looked at me with red-rimmed eyes and sniffled.

“How are you holding up?” I said to her.

“Okay, I guess. I’m so glad Father Keith’s here. He just makes me feel like things are gonna be all right.”

“That’s part of his job, yeah. Has he told you about the Hounds?”

“Yes, and I’ve met them.” Sophie perked up considerably. “They’re going to help me through the first change. I’m going to be part of their pack.”

“Wonderful! I’m really glad to hear it.”

She smiled, albeit wanly. I turned my attention to my aunt.

“I couldn’t find the energy to cook.” Eileen waved at the table. “I just hope it’s not too scrappy a meal.”

On the table I saw platters of fried chicken and sliced roast beef, to saying nothing of two thirds of a chocolate cake, a number of vegetable dishes, and two loaves of homemade bread.

“It doesn’t look scrappy to me,” I said. “It would look like a lot even to someone who likes to eat.”

“Oh, good. Sophie, would you open that jar of pickles and drain them?”

I opened the silverware drawer and brought out forks and knives, then arranged them on the counter beside the stack of plates. Once she’d done the pickles, Sophie trotted off down the long hall to summon the others. Despite the atmosphere of gloom, the men descended upon the buffet like the proverbial horde of locusts. Sophie and I picked at some cold salmon and otherwise ate salad. Aunt Eileen busied herself taking empty plates away and, occasionally, eating a bite or two.

I was standing in the corner of the kitchen when Or-Something appeared. The little blue creature manifested in the entrance to the hallway and whined as it danced on its clawed feet. Sophie had seen it, too. She snagged a handful of potato chips from the table and hurried over, but before she could offer the chips, Or-Something gurgled, coughed, and vomited a wad of paper at her feet. Sophie dropped the chips and picked up the wad.

No one else had seen the critter or its delivery, of course. I made my way over to them as unobtrusively as I could. Or-Something scarfed up the last chip and disappeared. Sophie
and I edged out into the hall without being noticed, then hurried down to the living room. Sophie began opening up the wadded paper with trembling fingers.

“It’s from José, not Michael. Ohmigawd!” She looked up wide-eyed and shaking. “They’ve been kidnapped.”

“Who? José?”

“No, no, Michael and Sean. The Stormers got them.” She was trying to read and talk at the same time. Her mind refused to run in straight lines at the best of times. “Little Sam tried to stop them, and so did José, but they grabbed them and opened fire.”

“Whoa!” I said. “Who opened fire? Who was the target?”

“No one, they were just shooting so the guys would run.”

“But who—”

“I told Michael he had to watch out for them. He didn’t believe me. It’s the gates. There’s so much money in them.”

“Sophie, stop!” I hissed at her. “Sorry, but let’s start at the beginning. Where are Michael and Sean?”

“No one knows. That’s the problem.” She held the notes out in my direction and began to cry.

It took me some while to straighten out both the notes and the story. Although José’s mind was more organized than Sophie’s, his spelling was terrible. Michael and Sean had been planning on returning home, but Mike insisted on spending one night in the BGs’ camp. Somehow or other one of the Protestant gangs, called Storm Blue, learned about their presence. José suspected treachery and was taking steps, he said, to find the informer. When my brothers left in the morning, the Storm Blue gang pounced.