The Rise and Falling Out of Saint Leslie of Security (11 page)

After a thoughtful hesitation, Leslie pressed the buzzer by his door. His deep voice responded immediately. “If it's who I think it is, come in, it'll open."

She stepped forward and the door
did
open, to reveal Roger Calvin standing in the entrance of his kitchen. His skin was ivory pale under his hair and the stubble on his weak chin. He was about four inches taller than Leslie, his arms threaded across a narrow chest. He was smirking. Leslie stepped inside his vision room. Soporific advertisements whispered softly.

"Lock the door behind you, huh?” he said, and Leslie pressed the locking unit. Roger started forward, dropped his arms, then stopped. “I made coffee. I figured you'd need it after your big night last night."

He disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Leslie stranded in the middle of the room.

"You know, I watched it all,” he called. “I don't mean the news coverage—that was on all the channels. Channel 63 broadcast the whole event. Nice body, by the way."

He reappeared with a mug in each hand. When Leslie reached to take one from him, he said, “Wait a minute. Just let me take care of something first.” He set the mugs on the coffee table, straightened, and then drew closer to her. “You don't know how much I've wanted to do this.” Leslie watched him raise an open hand and draw it back. She could have stopped him easily, but something kept her motionless. The slap stung her face and wrenched her head to the left.

Then she didn't want to stand still anymore. She wanted to strike him, draw Gun, and shoot until he was charred and smoking on the dull brown carpet. Instead, she made herself lean forward, clutching the side of her face. And instead of cursing him, she clamped her jaws shut. A tooth seemed loose. As she glared up at him, she wondered if he'd expected the violent reaction she'd suppressed. He shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, and the skin around his eyes tightened with what looked like regret. Still, he muttered, “That's for my brother, because he can't be here to do it himself."

Leslie fought back a dozen replies. He was frowning when he backed away, and she saw his hand tremble as he raised one of the steaming mugs. He held it out to her and she didn't strike it from his hand, as much as she wanted to. His voice was low and he spoke slowly. “Take it"

You are here,
Leslie told herself,
because you want to be. You knew this man would not love you. You knew it would only be luck if he ended up helping you.
She forced herself to take the coffee, then straightened.

"There.” Roger sucked in a deep breath and looked around the room. “No guards breaking in. I'm not being beaten or cuffed. No troops. I'm not dead for my impudence.” He steadied his gaze on her. “Maybe you really
are
alone, hmm?"

"Do you mind if I sit down at least?” When he didn't reply she sat on the edge of his couch. “Damn you. This is going to swell."

He took another deep breath. “Saint Leslie, you seem to think I have something you want. If I do, then by all means please enlighten me. If it's not too dear, you can have it, and then get the Red Hell out of here."

Leslie took her hand away from her cheekbone. “I want to understand."

"What? Me? My brother? The Sons of Man?"

"Yes,” she said, “yes and yes."

"Look. If you want to know about the Sons of Man, I'm sure your agency has files on it that would fill a—"

"Sure. But not for the important information. I don't want data. I want to understand."

He scowled. “I don't think you could."

"Why did your brother want to kill Father Washington, truthfully?"

"First of all, I don't think the Sons of Man actually asked him to do it. Look, he ... there's not that much to understand—"

"Please."

Roger pursed his lips and sat on the other end of the couch. “We don't believe Father Washington is some kind of living god consubstantial with his father. We don't even believe that ‘god', if he exists, is necessarily on our side."

"But doesn't history bear that out?"

"History.” He frowned. “You want a history lesson now? Are you going to tell me how Father Washington led the chosen Christian people back to the desert to cast out Satan and rebuild Eden? How He fought off the Cold War evils by destroying dictators all around the world so wealth and democracy could grow? How Saint Einstein unleashed the wrath of Yahweh on the devil people of Hiroshima, and then had a cookout with the pilots to celebrate? How He avenged His Holy Father in the Middle East and infused the lifeblood of the world with the oil of charity and freedom?"

"I don't accept all the legends without some interpretation."

"Good! Good. Maybe you're not as stupid as your career choice implies.” He paused and looked at her, as if inviting her to anger. She held her cheek—and her tongue. “Do you know what it's like to be hunted just because of what you believe? To wake up every day wondering if this is the day your secret thoughts will be exposed? To look around at your fellow citizens, smugly adjusted to the religion of personality, and know they would turn you in within a heartbeat? Knowing their docility is what allows the system to work, while they watch their vision and go shopping, and save up for the vacation in Disneyland? And that knowledge only fans your hate and your frustration.” Roger rose and wandered nervously from the couch. He looked like he hadn't intended to say these things to her. “Listen. I'm really not in this thing at all. I mean, I believe in what the SOM stands for, but I've never been a part of it. I can't explain Jeff to you. Not really."

"Roger,” Leslie said. “I want to tell you why I'm really here."

He turned, looked curious.

"All right.” She paused. “I'm pregnant."

"What do you want
me
to do about that?"

"It's an embarrassment to Security and to Washington. I'm ... not supposed to have it."

"And you
want
to? Why burden yourself? You're a saint. All expenses paid. Are you crazy?"

Did he hate the American way of life, or did he envy her position within it? She frowned—and noticed how the side of her face was stiffening. “I've heard the cult has safe places. Places you can hide, get help..."

Roger softly laughed now. “You want to use me to get in touch with the Sons of Man, so they can help you hide out to bear an illegitimate child."

Memory of her old dream—the warehouse of tissue, the slick cement floor—flashed so sharply she caught her breath. “I just don't know. But, for once, I want to feel in control. I want to hold the options. I didn't want my life to change, but it did anyway. And I didn't want to kill anyone, either. I was in a situation, and training took over. I wish it had never happened."

"So tell me why I should help you."

"I don't think there is a reason."

"Well, then."

"But I came here alone, humbly, to apologize to you. I've been insulted, humiliated, punched."

"Apologize!"

"Are you goading me? Do you want me to freak out on you? Uphold some illusion you hold of what I am—murderous, crazy—"

His eyes flashed with anger. “You killed my brother."

The door buzzed. “Who could that be?” he said. “Leslie. Who could that be?"

"I don't know."

"Who is it?” he hollered.

After a pause, Leslie heard Tommy Russell's voice. “Leslie? It's me."

"Oh my god,” she whispered. Roger mouthed silently to her:
Who is it?

"What are you doing here, Tom?"

"I want to talk. Will you let me in?"

"Why are you here!"

"Leslie. Do we have to talk through a locked door?"

"What the Red Hell is going on?” Roger whispered, backing across the room. All his courage had evaporated. He looked like a three-year-old boy.

"Just answer me, Tom."

"They let me come alone to talk, because of our relationship. It's just me. Now will you let me in or do I have to burn the lock?"

Leslie glanced at Roger. He stood in the kitchen doorway, just as he had when she first saw him. Except now, he was shaking. She put a finger to her lips and approached him. “There's a maintenance panel in the back wall of your kitchen, isn't there?” she whispered. He blinked and nodded. “Open it. Then you'll have to burn the lock into the robot access tunnel. Here."

She un-holstered Gun and held it out to him. He looked at it as if it were about to explode. “
Take it
,” she said. Then, to Gun: “Hello, Gun. I'm releasing safeties. I'm giving you to someone else to use. It's all right."

"Whatever you say,” Gun said. Leslie shook the weapon until Roger grasped it in a trembling hand. She watched him stumble into the kitchen.

"How did you find me here, Tom?"

"Come on, Les—"

"My head mem? Has Security been monitoring my head mem, Tom?"

He didn't answer.

"I promised this man nothing would happen to him if we met. He hasn't done anything."

"Worry a bit more about yourself. I don't want to see you getting any deeper into this than you already are. Don't worry about him. He'll get a fair trial."

"A fair trial for what?"

Again, he didn't answer. Leslie heard Gun sputter in the kitchen. She turned and her stomach knotted.

You're committed now.

"Let's get out of here,” she muttered. Then she heard Russell's laser behind her and she cursed.

Roger had ripped out the maintenance panel beneath his auto-kitchen and burned open the crawl space, cluttered with wires and darkness, behind it. Crouching down, she motioned him in.

"I can't believe this,” he whined. “I can't believe this.” Leslie took her Gun back, grabbed him by the shoulder, then thrust him down and forward. He scraped past the smoking, hot metal, where Gun had sheared through, and Leslie followed. “They're just going to monitor wherever your head mem goes, aren't they?"

"I thought you people had a way to screen the signal."

"The Sons of Man might, but I don't, for Washington's sake!"

"Well, it all depends on how they're managing this operation, anyway."

Roger didn't ask her what she meant. He said, “Shit,” and kept moving. Leslie wondered briefly what he was thinking about her. They squeezed through the tunnel, Leslie's knees banging painfully on the steel tracks that were supposed to draw the robots from apartment to apartment.

After a moment, she heard Tom calling behind them.

Don't follow us through the tunnel—please don't. It would be too easy to blow your head off in here.

But he was smarter than that, she knew. He would be rushing to guard as many access points as he could. She wondered how many guards were with him.

Roger stopped in front of her. “It drops here."

"Good. Go down the shaft."

"How the Red Hell am I going to do that?"

"Head first. Hang onto the tracks and you won't fall."

Leslie listened to him slide forward then heard his body slamming the shaft walls. Through her teeth she said, “Are you all right?"

"Twisted my wrist."

"Climb down one level, then find a horizontal passage. I'm right behind you.” She pulled herself to the edge of the blind drop and listened for Roger's motion below. When she heard what sounded like his body sliding into another tunnel, she reached over the shaft's lip and grasped the tracks that continued down along its side. She pulled herself out and down, hand over hand. The blood rushed to her head as she descended. She let her legs steady her against the sides of the narrow space. Then she felt the opening of the next level and, twisting her torso around for leverage, stuck her head into the tunnel. With her legs pushing against the walls of the shaft, she scraped, inch by inch, inside.

She stopped to rest, lying on her side, her feet still hanging in the shaft. At first she couldn't hear Roger in front of her. A sharp pang of panic stabbed her chest, throbbed once in her fingertips, and was gone. Had he fallen? Or somehow gotten into a different tunnel? Then his shoe scraped the tracks only a foot from her head and she expelled her caught breath.

As they crawled, Leslie felt along the sides with her fingers for an access to a maintenance panel. Her fingertips slammed into the lock of one, and she reached out to grasp Roger by the ankle. “Here.” She pulled out Gun.

Suddenly it was not the darkness, but the light, blinding Leslie as she burned away the lock, thick sparks bursting up and singeing her hair. She forced the door into the wall with Gun's barrel, and punched open the access panel with open palms. They wormed into the lesser darkness of someone's kitchen.

As Leslie stood, she heard someone stirring in the apartment's bedroom. “Somebody's in there,” she whispered. “Hurry.” They sprinted through the vision room and the front door.

Surprisingly, the corridor was empty. Leslie motioned with Gun for Roger to follow, and headed for an elevator. Inside it, she turned to her panting companion. “We'll go down to sub-level and get out from there. Do you know of anywhere we can go?"

He nodded. “If you get us out of here, I can get us to a safe house."

Leslie bit at her sore cheek and waited for the elevator to stop. When the door slid open, she jumped out with Gun raised. Again, the corridor was empty. She ran down it, and Roger followed.

The exit was unguarded. Leslie's mind raced. Security wouldn't want a story to get out about a defecting saint. Was it Security's need to be discreet that allowed them to escape? Or had Tom really been alone?

As they walked out onto the subway port, she felt almost overwhelming relief.

Roger's eyes were wide, and he still hadn't stopped shaking. “I don't believe it,” he kept saying. “I don't believe it."

Leslie holstered Gun, and after a few moments, they boarded a subway train.

"Ooo...” She looked down at her swelling body in amazement as the power, the inexorable energy, moved her bones and bore down. “It ... hurts.” The sweating mound of her belly had gone rigid—two long blades of muscle, constricting—and her shoulders, her parted knees, thighs, her whole body, shook. Her vision kept fragmenting into pieces of electronic black. Tom was there, between her thighs, one hand gently resting on the tight tendon of her upper thigh.