The Angel & the Brown-eyed Boy (8 page)

It must have taken a long time. So would advancing society to the point where everyone was law-abiding. How long did it take for humanity to evolve from an aggressive, territorial species, into the passive sponges they were now?

How long did it take to advance technology so snipes could keep track of what everyone said, or—maybe—thought? Where did they analyze it? In computers, or what? Because the government had high, high, technology, even if the people didn’t. Mel knew almost nothing about technology, because it was illegal. His notes were handwritten, as was everything else. People knew of computers, but didn’t know how to use them. Techs took care of that—techs who were kept out of sight, considered one step above criminals.

People had lots of TVs. They had cell phones, movies, and games, but nothing that made you think. They lived on an island called Manhattan in a state called New York, fed what passed for reality over the ever-present media.

Mel leaned over his papers. He wanted to get up and scream at the eye, “My name isn’t Mel Adams. It’s Mel Abrams! I’m the guy who ran out of the national university five years ago with a briefcase full of stuff you didn’t know existed! And, yes, you assholes, I am a fucking revolutionary!”

He clutched his forehead in his hand, determined not to lose control. He was one of them, and so were Henry and his wife. And Jeremy was the fucking grand dragon, hiding in the school’s basement, acting like a disabled nerd.

“In two months, you’ll be history,” he wanted to scream at the eye. “The party is on in two months, assholes!”

He clenched his teeth and forced himself to be still. He didn’t dare lose control. Five years before, he’d been a doctoral student at the national university. While doing research for his dissertation, he’d amassed documents that laid out a history far different from the official version. He’d cached what he found in the library, afraid to take it through the sensors.

That ended the day they caught him watching the disk. The security guards rushed him and he ran for his life, his satchel stuffed with papers and disks. He ran, legs aching and lungs burning, dodging down alleys and climbing over fences. He hid in one rathole after another, washed dishes to feed himself, and used every dime to buy fake papers that never held up.

He was Mel Abrams, a nonpracticing Jew, scholar, and intellectual. Three strikes against him. He’d had half a dozen phony identities since he’d run away. Staying alive and holding onto his evidence became his missions.

When the network found him, he was down to a hundred pounds. They led him to Jeremy. Jeremy got him a fake ID that worked, and a job teaching altered history in an art school for rich kids. At night, he disseminated the truth from Jeremy’s basement computer lab.

He was a revolutionary because of the disk he had found in a secret pocket in an old textbook. Mel had watched it in the library viewer before they rushed him—

Two shining glass towers stood tall in the sky. The camera showed New York City behind them, a different New York than he knew, but obviously the same place. An airplane appeared and flew into one tower. White flames and smoke poured from the hole it made. Another plane plowed into the other tower. The towers exploded and burned. The disk showed them collapsing, and the carnage on the street.

The images wouldn’t leave him.

On September 11, 2001, airplanes flew into the twin towers and destroyed them in an act of terrorism. Thousands of people died and the nation’s soul was scarred. The economy collapsed the same year,
and faulty leadership allowed the nation to decline. That day in 2001 was the beginning of the end for the United States. They’d had a few good leaders since then, but they couldn’t stem the tide. The world economy dissolved and universal despair set the stage for Tsar Yuri’s revolution.

That was what had really happened. It had been deleted from history and mass memory. But he had found the truth on that disk.

Mel heard kids shuffling around outside his classroom door and pulled himself into a more dangerous time: the present. The government had shown two computer analysts on the ‘net last night.

Even though being on the ‘net was a crime, no one could resist it. Everyone had a ‘net hookup; TVs were seldom used to watch programs. The techs had reestablished the ‘net as the source for real news. For that bit of public service, techs were rewarded with death when they were captured.

The two displayed the night before confessed that they had created an illegal computer and posted the images of the disappearing airplane as a prank. They apologized to the people of the United States and the world. They looked drugged.

The announcer said he felt so sorry when he saw young people taking the bad road, the road of technology. “And now, here is a message from Russia, where the delayed plane is undergoing repairs and will be taking off very soon.”

The screen showed an announcer with a Russian accent on a stairway over a lobby full of people, most of whom were waving at the camera. “As you can see, the passengers and crew are fine. Irkutskov Airlines is giving them rooms in the finest hotel in Moscow.” A bunch of people from the crowd had marched forward and said, “Hi, Mom!” into the microphone in a half-dozen languages.

Mel moved restlessly in his chair. If they found out who he really was, he’d be gone in a minute. He looked up. The eye in the ceiling was pointed straight at him, its lens clear and focused.

S
haq abandoned the cat after rounding the corner. She dashed up some steps and stood there, hissing and batting her claws at him. He wasn’t the slightest bit afraid of her, knowing he could kill her with one bite. He didn’t want to kill her. Her wanting to fight made him feel good, and he already felt better than he ever had.

Turning away, he scampered along the sidewalk. He ran so hard that his hind legs thrust way under his body; he seemed to jackknife at each leap. His tongue lolled and his eyes roved from side to side. He zigzagged along, dodging people.

The thing on his neck that Lena pulled to make him do what she wanted flapped behind him. Someone tried to grab it. He ran faster. When it caught on something, he knew what to do. He ran until it was tight, and then he pulled back, ducking his head just so. It dropped on the ground. He was free! Really free! He jumped in the air and scooted faster.

“Hey! Lookit that dog! He’s crazy!”

He didn’t know what the humans were saying, but he knew how he felt. Free. Free. Freer than he’d ever felt. The girl. He slept in her arms the night before, listening to her enormous roaring breath. He
knew she was a lioness. She was the queen of all dogs and the most powerful human in the world. He had found her.

While Henry and Lena were his people and he loved them, the girl was his goddess.

When he slept with her, she entered his dreams and showed him fields that he could run in, vast golden fields. The sky was wider than anything he had ever seen—which, now, was the open street corner in front of him. He was traveling uptown, not paying attention to where he was going, but moving steadily. Following some intelligence that guided his steps.

When she held him in the night, they had traveled across great expanses. He felt his body, strong and agile. He was a hunter. A lion of a dog, meant to live among elevated beings—monks in a far-off land. He heard a word in his mind: Tibet. He didn’t know what it meant, but he knew that he was made to serve and protect the highest.

This morning, he couldn’t stand his old life, waiting to come out to shit or pee all day. Getting a short walk over the same territory every evening. Being so lonely he wanted to growl and tear into the furniture. When he saw the cat, he leapt after her.

But she wasn’t what he wanted. He was supposed to go in the direction he was going. He was supposed to follow her. He found himself standing at a noisy street corner in uptown Manhattan. Lena had taught him well. He knew that when you got to where the sidewalk turned and you could see the stinking, noisy things rushing by in front of you, you stopped. You waited until they stopped. You watched the humans around you, and, when they crossed, you crossed with them.

He got to the other side and jumped onto the sidewalk. A human noticed him and said, “Hey! That’s a Lhasa Apso. It’s worth a lot of money. Grab it!” Another human grabbed for him, but Shaq dodged and escaped easily.

He leapt in the air for the joy of evading capture. Then he noticed something wonderful. An aroma that he knew somehow, but had never before smelled. He followed the trail, coming to something
sticking out of the ground. Many other dogs had marked their presence on this thing. He did, too, with gusto. He was a lion of a dog. He kicked his feet backward aggressively before starting again.

He trotted, following the aroma. A pack of dogs waited in front of some steps. Something called to him from those steps, but the girl’s calls were more important. He stood, head up. In a second, he knew exactly where she was.

And then he realized: she needed him! She was in danger.

Shaq tore off. He had to reach her in time. He ran, legs scissoring, lungs burning, tongue lolling. He stopped only at corners. She needed him! He had to save her.

He ran as far as he could, then realized he couldn’t reach her in time. There was only one way to save her.

Shaq got to the place where the sidewalk turned and the stinking things ran straight ahead. He leapt in front of a monster. Its force picked him up and threw him under its body. It tossed him, slamming him against the pavement and then against its metal undergirding. He didn’t hear the screams or the screeches of other vehicles stopping.

Nor did he look back at his lifeless form. Shaq had a job to do, a job more important than any in his old life. He knew what was about to happen and he was enraged.

M
adeleine Mercier stood by the grand piano at the far end of the dance floor. They used the warm-up studio behind the school’s theatre for practice. A driveway was cut into the ground outside the basement room, permitting guest stars and luminaries to be whisked away after performances, and workers to bring materials in at other times.

For light and air, the basement space depended upon a bank of windows overlooking the driveway. The lighting was somber, but they had chosen to use this room rather than the glass-walled dance pavilion on the upper floor. Its roof was so undependable that, in the winter, snow drifted in. In the summer, rain drenched the dancers and made the floor treacherous.

She surveyed her domain. The barre was attached to the outside wall under the windows. The room’s high ceiling and pristine wood floor were more than adequate. She clapped her hands three times and began a ritual that had been the core of her life as long as she could remember.

The doors to the hallway opened and the girls trooped in. This was an advanced class en pointe. She nodded to the girls, who
carefully arranged their bags and outer clothing in the lockers near the door. For class, they wore identical black leotards and pink tights, along with pink pointe shoes with matching satin laces. Some had bandages under their tights, or wrapped ankles.

The only sound in the studio was the whisper of satin slippers on the floor as they walked. They took their places, arranged, as always, according to their status in class—best to worst.

“Bridgette, you will move backward on the barre. The new girl is first.” Bridgette and the others stepped back along the long pole. If Bridgette resented losing her position to an upstart, she didn’t show it.

Madeleine smiled. Her previous favorite wouldn’t show offense, but she would have to be on guard, watching for toes and knees and elbows that might accidentally trip Olga. Madeleine stood even straighter, speaking in clipped tones.

“We have a new student. She should be here momentarily.”

They waited. Five minutes passed.

Madeleine was becoming annoyed. No one was ever late to her classes.

Olga wandered in, a full eight minutes late.

“There you are! I was about to send someone to look for you. Go over there, to the head of the class.” Olga wandered around the rear of the room. Hadn’t the little fool been in a ballet class before? Madeleine’s irritation sharpened when she saw that the girl was wearing street clothes. Henry would have to buy her proper attire after school.