Frankenstein - Prodigal Son Page 10

  She has been taught that she is of the New Race, posthuman, improved, superior. She is all but impervious to disease. She heals rapidly, almost miraculously.

  Yet when she needs solace, she finds it in the art and music and poetry of the mere humanity that she and her kind are intended to replace.

  When she has been confused, has felt lost, she's found clarity and direction in the writings of imperfect humanity And the writers are those of whom Victor would especially disapprove.

  This puzzles Erika: that a primitive and failed species, infirm humanity, should by its works lift her heart when none of her own kind is able to lift it for her.

  She would like to discuss this with others of the New Race, but she is concerned that one of them will think her puzzlement makes her a heretic. All are obedient to Victor by design, but some view him with such reverential fear that they will interpret her questions as doubts, her doubts as betrayals, and will then in turn betray her to her maker.

  And so she keeps her questions to herself, for she knows that in a holding tank waits Erika Five.

  Abed, with the smell of Victor lingering in the sheets, Erika finds this to be one of the times when poetry will prevent depression from ripening toward despair. If I shouldn't be alive / When the Robins come / Give the one in Red Cravat /A Memorial crumb.

  She smiled at Dickinson's gentle humor. That smile might have led to others if not for a scrabbling noise under the bed.

  Throwing back the sheets, she sat up, breath held, listening.

  As though aware of her reaction, the scrabbler went still—or if not still, at least silent, creeping now without a sound.

  Having neither heard nor seen any indication of a rat when she and Victor had returned to the bedroom following the departure of their guests, Erika had assumed that she'd been mistaken in thinking one had been here. Or perhaps it had found its way into a wall or a drain and from there to another place in the great house.

  Either the vermin was back or it had been here all along, quiet witness to the terrible tax Victor placed upon Erika's right to live.

  A moment passed, and then a sound issued from elsewhere in the room. A short-lived furtive rustle.

  Shadows veiled the room, were lifted only where the light of a single bedside lamp could reach.

  Naked, Erika slipped out of bed and stood, poised and alert.

  Although her enhanced eyes made the most of available light, she lacked the penetrating night vision of a cat. Victor was conducting cross-species experiments these days, but she was not one of them.

  Desirous of more light, she moved toward a reading lamp beside an armchair.

  Before she reached the lamp, she sensed more than heard a thing on the floor scurry past her. Startled, she pulled her left foot back, pivoted on her right, and tried to sight the intruder along the path that instinct told her it must have taken.

  When there was nothing to be seen—or at least nothing that she could see— she continued to the reading lamp and switched it on. More light revealed nothing that she hoped to find.

  A clatter in the bathroom sounded like the small waste can being knocked over.

  That door stood ajar. Darkness lay beyond.

  She started toward the bathroom, moving quickly but coming to a stop short of the threshold.

  Because members of the New Race were immune to most diseases and healed rapidly, they were afraid of fewer things than were ordinary human beings. That didn't mean they were utter strangers to fear.

  Although hard to kill, they were not immortal, and having been made in contempt of God, they could have no hope of a life after this one. Therefore, they feared death.

  Conversely, many of them feared life because they had no control of their destinies. They were indentured servants to Victor, and there was no sum they could work off to gain their freedom.

  They feared life also because they could not surrender it if the burden of serving Victor became too great. They had been created with a deeply embedded psychological injunction against suicide; so if the void appealed to them, they were denied even that.

  Here but a step from the bathroom threshold, Erika experienced another kind of fear: of the unknown.

  That which is abnormal to nature is a monster, even if it might be beautiful in its way. Erika, created not by nature but by the hand of man, was a lovely monster but a monster nonetheless.

  She supposed that monsters should not fear the unknown because, by any reasonable definition, they were part of it. Yet a tingle of apprehension traced the contours of her spine.

  Instinct told her that the rat was not a rat, that instead it was a thing unknown.

  From the bathroom came a clink, a clatter, a metallic rattle, as if something had opened a cabinet and set about exploring the contents in the dark.

  Erika's two hearts beat faster. Her mouth went dry Her palms grew damp. In this vulnerability, but for the double pulse, she was so human, regardless of her origins.

  She backed away from the bathroom door.

  Her blue silk robe was draped over the armchair. With her gaze fixed on the bathroom door, she slipped into the robe and belted it.

  Barefoot, she left the suite, closing the hall door behind her.

  As the midnight hour came, she descended through the house of Frankenstein, to the library where, among the many volumes of human thought and hope, she felt safer.

  CHAPTER 33

  AT VICTOR'S SUMMONS, they came to him in the main lab, two young men as ordinary in appearance as any in New Orleans.

  Not all the men of the New Race were handsome. Not all the women were beautiful.

  For one thing, when at last he had secretly seeded enough of his creations in society to exterminate the Old Race, humanity would put up a better defense if it could identify its enemy by even the most subtle telltales of appearance. If all members of the New Race looked like gorgeous fodder for the box-office battlefields of Hollywood, their beauty would make them objects of suspicion, subject them to testing and interrogation, and ultimately expose them.

  Their infinite variety, on the other hand, would ensure the winning of the war. Their variety, their physical superiority, and their ruthlessness.

  Besides, though he sometimes crafted specimens breathtaking in appearance, this enterprise was not fundamentally about beauty. It was at root about power and the establishment of a New Truth.

  Consequently, the young men he summoned might be considered extraordinary in appearance only because, considering what they were inside, they looked so common. Their names were Jones and Picou.

  He told them about Bobby Allwine in a drawer at the morgue. "His body must disappear tonight. And all confirming evidence—tissue samples, photographs, video."

  "The autopsy report, tape recordings?" asked Jones.

  "If they're easily found," Victor said. "But by themselves, they confirm nothing."

  Picou said, "What about the medical examiner, anyone who might have been there when the body was opened?"

  "For now, let them live," Victor said. "Without the body or any evidence, all they'll have is a wild story that'll make them sound like drunks or druggies."

  Although they were intellectually capable of greater work than this garbage detail, neither Jones nor Picou complained or found their assignments demeaning. Their patient obedience was the essence of the New Race.

  In the revolutionary civilization that Victor was making, as in Aldous Huxley's Brave New World, everyone in the social order would have a rank. And all would be content, without envy

  Huxley ordered his world with Alphas at the top, the ruling elite, followed by Betas and Gammas. Brute laborers were designated Epsilons, born to their positions in a designed society.

  To Huxley, this vision had been a dystopia. Victor saw it more clearly: Utopia.

  He'd once met Huxley at a cocktail party. He considered the man to be an officious little prig who worried ridiculously about science becoming a juggernaut and more dogmatic than any religion
could hope to be, crushing everything human from humanity. Victor found him to be rich in book knowledge, light on experience, and boring.

  Nevertheless, Huxley's nightmare vision served well as Victor's ideal. He would make the Alpha class almost equal to himself, so they would be challenging company and capable of carrying out his plans for the day after humanity had been liquidated, when the Earth would serve as a platform for great accomplishments by a race of posthumans who would work together as industriously as a hive.

  Now these two Epsilons, Oliver Jones and Byron Picou, set out like two good worker bees, eager to fulfill the roles for which they had been designed and built. They would steal Allwine's remains and dispose of them in a landfill that operated in higher ground outside the city.

  The landfill was owned by Victor through another shell company, and it employed only members of the New Race. He regularly required a secure disposal site to bury forever those interesting but failed experiments that must never be discovered by ordinary humans.

  Under those mountains of garbage lay a city of the dead. If ever they fossilized and were excavated by paleontologists a million years hence, what mysteries they would present, what nightmares they would inspire.

  Although problems existed with the comparatively small hive —as yet only two thousand of the New Race—that he had established here in New Orleans, they would be solved. Week by week he made advances in his science and increased the number in his implacable army. He would soon begin to mass produce the tanks, creating his people not in a laboratory but by the many thousands in much larger facilities that might accurately be called farms.

  The work was endless but rewarding. The Earth had not been made in a day, but he had the necessary patience to remake it.

  Now he was thirsty. From a lab refrigerator, he got a Pepsi. A little plate of chocolate chip cookies was in the fridge. He adored chocolate chip cookies. He took two.

  CHAPTER 34

  SOMEONE HAD PUT a police seal on Bobby Allwine's apartment door. Carson broke it.

  This was a minor infraction, considering that the place was not actually a crime scene. Besides, she was, after all, a cop.

  Then she used a Lockaid lock-release gun, sold only to police agencies, to spring the deadbolt. She eased the thin pick of the gun into the keyway, under the pin tumblers, and pulled the trigger. She pulled it four times before lodging all the pins at the shear line.

  The Lockaid gun was more problematic than breaking the seal. The department owned several. They were kept in the gun locker with spare weapons. You were supposed to requisition one, in writing, through the duty officer each time that you had a legal right to use it.

  No detective was authorized to carry a Lockaid gun at all times. Because of a screwup in the requisition process, Carson had come into permanent possession of one—and chose not to reveal that she had it.

  She had never used it in violation of anyone's rights, only when it was legal and when precious time would be saved by dispensing with a written requisition. In the current instance, she couldn't violate the rights of Bobby Allwine for the simple reason that he was dead.

  Although she liked those old movies, she wasn't a female Dirty Harry She'd never yet bent a rule far enough to break it, not in a situation of true importance.

  She could have awakened the superintendent and gotten a pass key She would have enjoyed rousting the rude old bastard from his bed.

  However, she remembered how he'd looked her up and down, licking his lips. Without Michael present, roused from sleep perhaps induced by wine, the super might try to play grab-ass.

  Then she would have to reacquaint him with the effect of a knee to the gonads. That might necessitate an arrest, when all she wanted was to meditate on the meaning of Allwine's black-on-black apartment.

  She switched on the living-room ceiling fixture, closed the door behind her, and put the Lockaid gun on the floor.

  At midnight, even with a light on, the blackness of the room proved so disorienting that she had half an idea what an astronaut might feel during a space walk, tethered to a shuttle, on the night side of Earth.

  The living room offered nothing but the black vinyl armchair. Because it stood alone, it seemed a little like a throne, one that had been built not for earthly royalty but for a middle-rank demon.

  Although Allwine had not been killed here, Carson sensed that getting a handle on the psychology of this particular victim would contribute to her understanding of the Surgeon. She sat in his chair.

  Harker claimed that the black rooms expressed a death wish, and Carson grudgingly conceded that his interpretation made sense. Like a stopped clock, Harker could be right now and then, although not as often as twice a day.

  A death wish did not, however, entirely explain either the decor or Allwine. This black hole was also about power, just as real black holes, in far reaches of the universe, exert such gravitational pull that not even light can escape them.

  These walls, these ceilings, these floors had not been painted by a man in a state of despair; despair enervated and did not inspire action. She could more easily imagine Allwine blackening these walls in an energetic anger, in a frenzy of rage.

  If that was true, then at what had his rage been directed?

  The arms of the chair were wide and plumply padded. Under her hands, she felt numerous punctures in the vinyl.

  Something pricked her right palm. From the padding beneath a puncture, she extracted a pale crescent: a broken-off fingernail.

  A closer look revealed scores of curved punctures.

  The chair and the room chilled her as deeply as if she had been sitting on a block of ice in a cooler.

  Carson hooked her hands, spread her fingers. She discovered that each of her nails found a corresponding slit in the vinyl.

  The upholstery was thick, tough, flexible. Extreme pressure would have been required for fingernails to puncture it.

  Logically, despair would not produce the intensity of emotion needed to damage the vinyl. Even rage might not have been sufficient if Allwine had not been, as Jack Rogers had said, inhumanly strong.

  She rose, wiping her hands on her jeans. She felt unclean.

  In the bedroom, she switched on the lights. The pervasive black surfaces soaked up the illumination.

  Someone had opened one of the black blinds. The apartment was such a grim world unto itself that the streetlamps, the distant neon, and the glow of the city seemed out of phase with Allwine's realm, as if they should have existed in different, isolated universes.

  Beside the bed, she opened the nightstand drawer, where she discovered Jesus. His face looked out at her from a litter of small pamphlets, His right hand raised in blessing.

  From among perhaps a hundred pamphlets, she selected four and discovered that they were memorial booklets of the kind distributed to mourners at funerals. The name of the deceased was different on each, though all came from the Fullbright Funeral Home.

  Nancy Whistler, the librarian who had found Allwine's body, said he went to mortuary viewings because he felt at peace there.

  She pocketed the four booklets and closed the drawer.

  The smell of licorice hung on the air as thick as it had been earlier in the day Carson couldn't shake the disturbing idea that someone had recently been burning the black candles that stood on a tray on the windowseat.

  She crossed to the candles to feel the wax around the wicks, half expecting it to be warm. No. Cold and hard, all of them.

  Her impression of the scene beyond the window was unnerving but entirely subjective. Enduring New Orleans hadn't changed. In the grip of creeping paranoia, however, she saw not the festive city that she knew, but an ominous metropolis, an alien place of unnatural angles, throbbing darkness, eerie light.

  A reflection of movement on the glass pulled her focus from the city to the surface of the pane. A tall figure stood in the room behind her.

  She reached under her jacket, placing her hand upon the 9mm pistol in her sho
ulder holster. Without drawing it, she turned.

  The intruder was tall and powerful, dressed in black. Perhaps he had entered from the living room or from the bathroom, but he seemed to have materialized out of the black wall.

  He stood fifteen feet away, where shadows hid his face. His hands hung at his sides—and seemed as big as shovels.

  "Who're you?" she demanded. "Where'd you come from?"

  "You're Detective O'Connor." His deep voice had a timbre and a resonance that in another man would have conveyed only self-assurance but that, combined with his size, suggested menace. "You were on TV."

  "What're you doing here?"

  "I go where I want. In two hundred years, I've learned a great deal about locks."

  His implication left Carson no choice but to draw her piece. She pointed the muzzle at the floor, but said, "That's criminal trespass. Step into the light."

  He did not move.

  "Don't be stupid. Move. Into. The. Light."

  "I've been trying to do that all my life," he said as he took two steps forward.

  She could not have anticipated his face. Handsome on the left, somehow wrong on the right side. Over that wrongness, veiling it, was an elaborate design reminiscent of but different from a Maori tattoo.

  "The man who lived here," the intruder said, "was in despair. I recognize his pain."

  Although he had already stopped, he loomed and could have been upon her in two strides, so Carson said, "That's close enough."

  "He was not made of God... and had no soul. He agonized."

  "You have a name? Very carefully very slowly, show me some ID."

  He ignored her order. "Bobby Allwine had no free will. He was in essence a slave. He wanted to die but couldn't take his own life."

  If this guy was correct, Harker had nailed it. Each razor blade in the bathroom wall marked a failed attempt at self-destruction.