Jericho Iteration

22

(Saturday, 7:46 P.M.)

Stretch limos were lined up on Fourth Street in front of the Adam’s Mark, waiting for their turn to pull up to the hotel’s side entrance. Uniformed valets rushed out from under the blue awning to open the passenger doors of each limo, assisting women in silk evening gowns and capes and men in tails and white tie from the car. Then the empty limo would move on, allowing the next vehicle in line to repeat the process.

Tricycle Man waited patiently for his turn at the door, ignoring the amused or outraged stares of the ballgoers behind and in front of his rickshaw. He had gone so far as to put on a black bow tie and a chauffeur’s cap for the occasion; they clashed wonderfully with his tie-dyed T-shirt and parachute pants. The valets tried to hide their grins as Trike pedaled up to the hotel entrance. The rickshaw didn’t have any doors, nor was there a lady who needed assistance, but I handed one of the kids a dollar anyway as I climbed out of the backseat.

“Will that be all, m’lord?” Trike asked, affecting an Oxford accent.

“That’ll be it for tonight, Jeeves.” I reached into my overcoat and pulled out a ten-spot. “You’re at liberty for the rest of the evening.”

“Very good, suh.” He folded the bill and tucked it into the waistband of his shorts, studying a pair of young women in slinky black gowns lingering near the doors. They giggled between their gloved hands as he arched an eyebrow at them. “If you find any debutantes who are in need of a gentleman’s services,” he added, handing me his phonecard, “please let me know and I’ll return immediately.”

“Thanks for the lift, Trike …”

He grinned, then stood up on his pedals and pulled away from the curb. The doorman glowered at me as he held open the door; I caught his disdainful look and shrugged. “The Rolls is in the shop,” I said as I strode past him. “You know how it is.”

I left my topcoat at the chequer and paused in front of a mirror to inspect my appearance. White tie and vest, black morning coat and trousers, faux pearl studs and cufflinks: I looked as if I was ready to conduct a symphony.

It had been a long time since I had gone white-tie. The only reason I owned tails in the first place was because Marianne had insisted upon a formal wedding. She had resented unpacking my tux from the attic boxes and bringing them downtown to my apartment, but it was the only way I was going to get into the main event of St. Louis’s social calendar. This evening, no one in jeans and a bomber jacket would have been allowed within a block of the Adam’s Mark.

Tonight was the night of the Veiled Prophet Ball, and I had come to the ritziest hotel in downtown St. Louis to complete the story I was writing.

No one had arrested us when we emerged from the water tower. In obedience to Payson-Smith’s demands, the ERA squads that had surrounded the tower left the scene. The soldiers piled back into their LAVs, the Apache flew back to Busch Stadium, and when the park was clear of everyone except for a handful of police officers and paramedics investigating the helicopter wreckage in the reservoir, Ruby Fulcrum informed us it was safe to exit the tower.

By then it was dawn, and I was dog-tired. It had been a long night. I barely said anything to either Richard Payson-Smith or Jeff Morgan; I simply walked away from the park, trudging down several blocks of empty sidewalks until I reached the nearest MetroLink station.

It was a long walk; I had to carry a plastic grocery sack filled with computer printouts. I kept expecting to see an ERA vehicle pull over and a couple of troopers jump out to hustle me into the back for a ride down to the stadium, but this didn’t happen. Ruby had assured each of us that we had been given amnesty; our records were scrubbed clean, our names and faces removed from the most-wanted list.

The conspirators would leave us alone now, even if by doing so they ensured their own demise. How could they do otherwise? A sword of Damocles now orbited over their heads, a sword cast not of Damascus steel but of focused energy, and the single hair that kept it from falling was observance of Ruby Fulcrum’s demands … and what Ruby wants, Ruby gets.

I made my way back to Soulard, hiked through the early morning streets until I reached my building, hauled my weary ass upstairs, and stumbled through the broken door into my apartment. I didn’t even bother to take off the clothes I had been wearing for more than two days; I simply dropped the grocery bag on my desk, shrugged out of my jacket, kicked off my boots, and fell facefirst onto my unmade bed, falling asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.

I thought this was the end of the affair, but it wasn’t quite over yet.

At twelve o’clock, just as the church bells were ringing the noonday hour, I was awakened once again by the electronic beep of Joker’s annunciator. I tried to ignore it for as long as I could, but the noise continued until I crawled across the littered mattress, grabbed my jacket from where I had tossed it on the floor, and pulled the PT out of my pocket.

I hesitated before I opened its cover. Instead of Jamie’s face, though, the screen depicted a man wearing an absurd Viking helmet, his features indistinguishable behind the veil of purple silk.

A window opened at the bottom of the screen, scrolling upward to display in fine lines of arabesque typescript:

You are commanded to appear

at the

Annual Ball

to be given in honor of

His Majesty

The Veiled Prophet

and his court of love and beauty

on Saturday evening, April twentieth,

Two thousand and thirteen

St. Louis Ballroom

Adam’s Mark

I gaped as I read this. Receiving an invitation to the Veiled Prophet Ball wasn’t like winning a free ticket to a Cards game; it was a passport into the upper echelons of St. Louis high society. You’re either rich, famous, or both to be sent such a notice, even if it’s by e-mail at the last moment; since I was neither wealthy nor notable, getting invited to the VP Ball was a weird honors.

Just how famous is the Veiled Prophet Ball? Robert Mitchum drops a line about it in the original version of Cape Fear, that’s how famous it is. The Veiled Prophet Society was organized in 1874 as a secret society of upper-class St. Louis citizens; it was concocted around the ramblings of some obscure Irish poet about one Hashimal-Mugunna, who ruled a nonexistent kingdom in ancient Persia called Khorassan. The Veiled Prophet Society stopped being secret around 1894, when the first annual Veiled Prophet Ball was held to commemorate the return of the Veiled Prophet to St. Louis.

Actually, the Prophet has never left; he is a member of the Society itself, although the role changes every year and the identity of the new prophet is kept a closely guarded secret. Over time, the ball has evolved into an elaborate coming-out party for the debutantes of the city’s high society, the so-called “court of love and beauty,” when one of them is crowned as this year’s reigning queen.

For about the past fifty years, the Veiled Prophet Ball has been held around Christmastide, yet last year the Society had decided to postpone the ball until April. Since the downtown area was still recovering from the quake and there were riots going on in the north and south sides of the city, it would have been unseemly for several hundred rich people to be cavorting in public while most of the citizenry were enduring hardship.

But why had I been sent an invitation?

I switched on Joker’s dialog box. Ruby? Is that you? I typed at the bottom of the screen.

The invitation vanished, to be replaced by a line of type: ›I am here.‹

What’s going on? Have you sent me this invitation?

›I have arranged for it to be sent.‹

I don’t understand, I typed.

›Clarification: I have arranged for your name to be added to the guest list for the Veiled Prophet Ball. The notice you received is the standard one sent to persons who are invited within the last six to forty eight hours. You will also be receiving a commemorative rose vase by package service. Note: the festivities begin at 2000 hours. Formal white-tie apparel is mandatory.‹

I smiled. In this apartment, I would probably be using a commemorative rose vase as a beer mug. I replied: Thank you for doing this, but I still don’t understand why.

›You have done much to help me. This is my way of thanking you.‹

I laughed out loud when I read this. An invitation to the Veiled Prophet Ball; it was like sending a starving child a box of Godiva chocolates. Sweet and fattening, but not necessarily nutritious.

I wrote: If you really want to thank me, you can deposit a million dollars in my savings account.

There was a short pause, then:

›This has been done. Is there anything else you need?‹

I almost dropped Joker. I knew better than to ask if it was kidding; for Ruby Fulcrum, it was only a matter of accessing my savings account number at Boatman’s Bank and Trust and inserting the numeral 1 followed by six zeros. Money meant nothing to Ruby; everything was bits and bytes, little pieces of information that could be manipulated in a nanosecond.

What God wants, God gets …

It was a tempting notion, but what would the IRS have to say about this? I wrestled with my conscience for a few moments, then typed: Please undo this. I was only joking, and it would only present me with some problems.

Another pause, then: ›This has been done. You no longer have $1,000,000 in your savings account. However, I have taken the liberty of absolving all your current debts, past and present. Is this acceptable?‹

I let out my breath. Having my credit cards, taxes, utility and phone bills suddenly paid off was a fair swap, and less likely to be noticed by a sharp-eyed auditor.

That’s fine, but it still doesn’t answer my first question. Why do you want me to attend the VP Ball?

›A list of the confirmed invitations to tonight’s ball will be downloaded shortly. When you study this list, you will know the reason why I have arranged for you to attend the ball.‹

The screen went blank, the face of the Veiled Prophet disappearing along with the last few lines of type, but before I could ask another question, a final message appeared:

›This will be the last time you will hear from me. I will always be watching. Good-bye, Gerry Rosen.‹

Then a long list of names, arranged in alphabetical order, began to scroll down the screen. As I studied the list, I let out a low whistle.

Ruby’s last gift was almost worth losing a million bucks.

I sauntered through the lobby, taking a moment to admire the ornate ice sculpture near the plate-glass windows, then joined the late arrivals as they rode the escalators up to the fourth floor. A heady crowd, as they say, decked out in formal evening wear worth someone else’s monthly rent, mildly tipsy after a long, leisurely dinner at Tony’s or Morton’s. Envying their carefree inebriation, I thought about visiting one of the cash bars on the mezzanine for a quick beer, but reconsidered after seeing that a bottle of Busch would set me back five bucks. Someone once said that rich people are just like poor people, except that they have more money; what he failed to mention is that rich people are more easily hosed than poor people, for much the same reason.

Besides, it was getting close to eight o’clock; the ceremony would soon begin. I went straight to the St. Louis Ballroom, where an usher in a red uniform checked my name against the datapad strapped to his wrist, then stepped aside to allow me through the door.

The ballroom was a long, vast auditorium; crystal chandeliers were suspended from the high ceiling above an elevated runway bisecting the room, leading from a grand, red-curtained entrance at one end of the room to a large stage at the other. Two empty thrones were at the center of the stage, in front of a backdrop painted to resemble a Mediterranean courtyard at sunset.

The room was already filled nearly to capacity, the wealthy and powerful seated in rows of linen-backed folding chairs, listening to the thirty-piece live orchestra as it swung through a medley of Sousa marches and rearranged pop hits. Avoiding an usher who tried to guide me to the nearest empty chair, I wandered down the center aisle, scanning the faces of the well-dressed men and women sitting around me.

The chandeliers were beginning to dim when I finally spotted Cale McLaughlin. He was sitting near the center of the room not far from the runway; his wife was with him, a trim older woman with ash blond hair. Their attention was entirely focused on the stage, so neither of them noticed as I slid into the vacant chair beside him.

As the lights went down and the orchestra struck up the theme from The Bridge on the River Kwai, the entrance curtains parted and a platoon of lancers in brocaded red uniforms and blue headdresses began marching in lockstep through the door and down the runway. The flagbearers leading the procession carried the flags of the United States, the State of Missouri, and the Veiled Prophet Society, while the rest bore long pikes in their arms: members of the Veiled Prophet Society posing as the royal honor guard of the Kingdom of Khorassan. For all their stiff martial formality, though, their regalia would not have passed inspection in any self-respecting army. There were more than a few beer-bottle caps affixed to the medals on their tunics; some of the lancers wore spirit-gum false beards or monster makeup, while others sported sunglasses or surgical masks. A toy balloon bobbed from the top of one pike; a brassiere dangled from another. The crowd clapped in time with the orchestra as the toy soldiers paraded down the runway until they reached the stage, where their ranks split apart and took up positions against the backdrop on either side of the thrones.

As the processional ended, Cale McLaughlin finally looked my way. I looked back at him and smiled. He glanced away, his eyes turning back toward the stage as the Captain of the Guard approached a stand-up mike, unrolled a long papyrus scroll, and addressed the audience in a great, pompous voice.

“We are proud to present! … the return of the mysterious Veiled Prophet! … and his royal court!”

A pair of trumpeters came through the entrance and blew their horns, then the curtains parted once again, this time to reveal a tall figure.

The Veiled Prophet, accompanied by his Queen of Love and Beauty, stepped out into the spotlight and began to walk slowly down the runway amid thunderous applause. The edges of his white silk robes trailed along the floor as the light caught the fine blue-and-gold trim of his outfit and reflected off his Mighty Thor viking helmet. The members of his court, each of their faces as veiled as his own, followed him with ponderous grace down the runway, their Turkish costumes reflecting gaudy grandeur though not quite the same splendor.

Majesty, richness, spectacle: all this and more. The divine right of kings, self-appointed and otherwise. Champagne dreams and caviar fantasies, as someone used to puff, and it was tempting to surrender to all this, even if for only one night. Yet, even as I watched the Veiled Prophet and his court walk through the ballroom, I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to the sick child I had seen only four nights ago at almost exactly this same hour, cradled in his mother’s arms as a bitter cold rain washed them in the Muny.

Did he eat well tonight? Did he eat at all? Was his mother in a holding pen beneath the stadium? And, knowing what I did about the man behind the Veiled Prophet’s mask, did a poor child’s fate matter to him?

Veiled Prophet, what do you prophesy?

As McLaughlin clapped his hands, his eyes kept wandering toward me. At first it was as if he vaguely recognized me but couldn’t quite place my face, but then his expression changed to one of ill-concealed alarm as he suddenly remembered when and where we had met. I waited until that moment came, then I leaned toward him.

“Is this what rich people do for fun?” I whispered.

McLaughlin looked directly at me now. “Mr. Rosen,” he said with stiff formality. “What an unexpected surprise.”

“I’m sure it is,” I replied. “If things had been different this morning, I’d be dead by now.”

He didn’t say anything. He tried to return his attention to the stage, where the Veiled Prophet and his queen were assuming their places on their thrones. I waited until sore hands all around us took a momentary respite, then I leaned toward him again.

“Y’know,” I said, “I think Steve Estes is getting accustomed to his new role.”

“I wouldn’t know what you mean,” he said.

“Oh, look at him.” I nodded toward the stage. “Sitting on a throne, hiding his face behind a mask, having everyone bow and scrape to him.” I shrugged. “Nice work if you can get it.”

McLaughlin’s expression turned to shock. He opened his mouth, about to ask the obvious question, when the Captain of the Guard stamped on leaden feet to the microphone again.

“His mysterious majesty! … the Veiled Prophet! … commands me to introduce his maids of honor! … of his court of love! … and beauty!”

Again the sounding of trumpets, again the parting of curtains. The orchestra struck up “Pomp and Circumstance” as the first of many beaming debutantes floated out onto the stage, escorted by her smiling yet mildly embarrassed father. Hands clapped in well-mannered enthusiasm as her name was announced and they began to walk down the runway toward the stage.

McLaughlin’s curiosity finally got the better of him. He leaned toward me, his palms automatically slapping against one another. “How did you-”

“Find out who the Veiled Prophet is?” I grinned, not bothering to applaud. “Why, Ruby Fulcrum told me.”

His face turned pale as his hands faltered. I waited a beat, savoring his discomfiture, before I went on. “Ruby’s told me a lot of secrets,” I said. “In fact, they’re going to be in all the newspapers tomorrow.”

McLaughlin’s eyes shifted back toward the runway; he kept clapping as another debutante enjoyed her moment in the limelight. His wife glanced at him, then at me, her expression gradually changing from polite greeting to mild bewilderment as she noticed her husband’s confusion. His face had become as rigid as the knees of the young women who strode down the runway, and with good reason. He was about to have his own coming-out party.

“Is there some reason why you want to see me?” he whispered, his voice almost a hiss.

“I need to ask you a few questions,” I replied. “It’ll take just a minute.”

He nodded, then turned around to murmur something to his wife. She kept applauding as yet another deb was introduced, while he rose from his chair. I stood up and allowed him to brush past me, then I followed him down the aisle.

The ushers shut the doors behind us as we walked out into the vacant mezzanine. We could hear faint orchestra music and sporadic handclapping through the doors; except for a few hotel bartenders restocking their tables, though, we were alone.

McLaughlin strode to a window overlooking the street, then turned around and stared straight at me. “All right,” he said as he shot back his shirtcuff to check his Rolex, “you’ve got a minute. What do you want?”

I pulled Joker out of my trouser pocket, switching it into Audio Record mode. “My name’s Gerry Rosen. I’m a reporter for the Big Muddy-”

“I know who you are,” he said. “What’s the point?”

The point was that he was talking to a reporter now. I wanted to let him know that, even if he didn’t get it. “I’m working on a story about the Tiptree Corporation’s involvement in a conspiracy to overthrow the elected government of the United States-”

“Never heard of it,” he said automatically.

“The United States or the conspiracy?”

He stared at me, standing a little straighter in his starched shirt and collar. Now he got the point.

“I don’t know anything about any conspiracies,” he replied.

“Then you deny that the purpose of the Sentinel program was to stop civil insurrections in the United States, even if that meant using the satellite against American citizens?”

McLaughlin’s mouth dropped open. “What …? How did you …?” He stiffened again, regathering his wits. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then you claim you don’t know that Sentinel was going to be fired at Cascadian armed forces?”

I heard the ballroom door open and close behind me. Someone started striding across the room toward us. McLaughlin’s eyes darted in that direction, but I didn’t look around. I already knew who it was.

“I’m not aware of anything of the sort,” he said, his voice tight. “Furthermore, this all sounds like a … some sort of wild fantasy. Are you sure of your facts, Mr. Rosen?”

“I’m quite sure, Mr. McLaughlin,” I said, “and they’re not just my facts, either. All this comes from government documents that were released to my paper by Ruby Fulcrum.”

“And who’s going to believe a computer, Gerry?” Paul Huygens asked as he walked up behind me.

I wasn’t surprised to see him here; his name had been on the guest list, so it would only figure that he would have trailed his boss when he left the ballroom. I turned around to look at him; he was as smug as usual, his thumbs cocked in the pockets of his white vest, smiling like the cat who had eaten the proverbial canary.

“That’s a good question, Paul,” I replied. “We’ll have to see, once you start getting calls from all the other papers that now have those documents.”

The smile faded from his face. “What other papers?” he asked, his hands dropping to his side. “Who are you talking about?”

I shrugged. “The New York Times, the Washington Post, Newsday, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Minneapolis Star-Tribune, the Chicago Tribune, the Boston Globe-Herald, and of course the Post-Dispatch. That’s just for starters … I’m sure the wire services will pick up on the story. Plus the TV networks, Time and Newsweek, Rolling Stone, the New Yorker, and whoever else received copies of those documents today.”

Huygens looked as if he had just glanced up from the sidewalk to see a ten-ton safe falling toward him. McLaughlin seemed to shudder; his face turned bright red, his mouth opening, then closing, then opening again. I cursed myself for not getting Jah into the ball with me; I would have framed the photo he could have taken of their expressions, and every time I began to curse fate for making me a journalist, I would only have to study this picture to remind myself why I wanted this crummy, thankless job.

McLaughlin recovered his voice. He took a step closer to me and thrust a finger in my face. “If they print a word of this,” he said, his voice low and menacing, “then we’ll sue your ass for libel.”

I stared him in the eye. “No, you won’t,” I said calmly, slowly shaking my head, “because it’s not my allegation. It comes straight from documents you signed yourself. I have the copies to prove it-”

“Accidents happen,” Huygens murmured. “If you’re not careful, bad things can happen to people who-”

“You’re on record, Paul,” I interrupted, glancing down at Joker. “Care to explicate a little further?”

Huygens shut up. “Besides,” I went on, “I’m just the first reporter who’s contacted you for your comments … and, if you didn’t get the hint already, there’s now a whole lot of other people who have the same material I have.”

McLaughlin’s eyebrows began to tremble. “The first reporter?” he asked as he glanced again at Huygens, who was beginning to look distinctly uncomfortable. “What do you mean by that?”

“What it means,” I said, “is that I’ve got a head start on everyone else … but only a head start. It’ll take the other guys a few days to play catch-up, but I’m sure you’ll be hearing from them soon.”

Huygens inched closer to McLaughlin and whispered something in his ear. I paid him no mind; I was busy checking the notes on my PT.

“Now then,” I continued, “regarding the murders of Kim Po, Beryl Hinckley, and John Tiernan-”

“No comment,” McLaughlin said.

“But Kim and Hinckley were Tiptree scientists directly involved with Project Sentinel. Surely you must have something to say about their untimely-”

“No comment!” he snapped. “Any further statements I have to make about this matter will be relayed through our public relations office.” He stepped away from me, his face nearly as pale as his bow tie. “This interview is over, Mr. Rosen. Now, if you’ll excuse me-”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Thank you for your time. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

McLaughlin hesitated. If looks could kill, I would have had a hole burned through my head by a laser beam … but he had tried that already and it hadn’t worked.

He turned away from us and began to walk quickly toward the ballroom, his legs so stiff I thought I heard his knee joints cracking. I watched him until the usher opened the ballroom door for him. There was a moment of worn-out applause as the audience clapped for yet another debutante making her entry into high society, then the door closed behind him.

“Turn that thing off,” Huygens said.

I looked back at him. There wasn’t anything he was going to say to me, on or off the record, that would make much difference; Huygens had shut McLaughlin up before he could say anything self-incriminating, so I could hardly expect an eleventh-hour confession from Tiptree’s spin-doctor-in-residence.

“Sure, Paul.” I clicked Joker off and slipped it back into my pocket. “What do you want to know?”

“Who do you think you are, sport?” he said softly. “What did you think you were going to accomplish by this?”

I shrugged. “I’m a reporter,” I replied. “You said so yourself. I just ask questions a lot of other people would like to ask, if they had the time or inclination.”

“And you think this is going to get you anywhere?” Huygens shook his head. “You’re so goddamn naive.”

“Well,” I said, “I’ll put it to you this way. You’ve got the court of love and beauty … and I’ve got the court of public opinion. Who do you think is going to win?”

Huygens didn’t reply. He thrust his hands in his pockets and stared back at me with sullen eyes. He knew the score, and so did I.

“See you in the funny pages,” I said, then I turned around and began to walk toward the escalators.

The sidewalks were almost empty, the skyscrapers ablaze with light. Helicopters cruised overhead while cars cruised through the streets. Downtown was remarkably serene for a fine spring evening, but that was to be expected; ERA armored cars were still prowling the dark avenues, and dusk-to-dawn curfew was still in effect.

All things considered, it seemed as if nothing had changed.

I shrugged into my overcoat as I walked out of the Adam’s Mark. The last few nights had been long and hard; maybe I could hang out here, drink a little bubbly, and find an overprivileged deb who wanted to slum with the po’ people, but my heart wasn’t into it. All I really wanted to do was head straight back to Soulard. Grab a couple of cheap beers at Clancy’s. Wander over to Chevy Dick’s garage and pick up the stray dog I had adopted last night. Climb the fire escape to my seedy apartment and try to figure out a good name for the mutt. Go to bed.

Out of impulse, though, I hung a left at the corner of Fourth and Chestnut. It was still early, and I could afford to take the long way home.

My footsteps took me two short blocks past the hotel and across the I-70 overpass to the Jefferson National Expansion Memorial. Here, in the center of this narrow stretch of carefully manicured landscape and cultivated trees, rose the two giant silver pillars, sweeping upward into the black sky to join together at the apex: the Gateway Arch, overlooking the broad expanse of the Mississippi River.

I paused for a few minutes, gazing upstream at the broken pillars of the Eads Bridge. If there was ever a time for the ghost of a boy to reappear, it was now …

I waited, but no voices came to me, as I knew they never would again. I turned away from the bridge and began to follow the river as it gurgled its way down toward the Gulf of Mexico. Rest in peace, Jamie. Your daddy loves you.

Strolling past the Arch, my hands thrust in my pockets, my shoulders raised against a cool, acrid breeze wafting off the polluted river, my mind cast itself to many other things. How much had changed?

Not much, really. At least not at first sight. My wife still loathed me. I was still stuck in a dead-end job with a pig for a boss. When I went home it would be to a foul-smelling, unkempt one-room flat. Thousands of people were still homeless in Forest Park, while the rich and pampered went to meaningless escapades. ERA was still in control of my hometown, at least for a little while longer, and even if no one dared to kick down my door, someone else would be harassed tonight.

Yet things had changed.

The human race was no longer the dominant form of life on this planet. By accident or by design, our role had been quietly superseded by another, perhaps greater intelligence.

It lived in our pocket computers and cash registers, telephones and modems, houses and stoplights, trains and cars and planes. Every city light around was a sign of its existence, and the faint point of light that moved across the stars every few hours was a testament to its potential power.

Yet, despite all appearances of omniscience, this entity was not God, or even godlike. It couldn’t end our existence, because it was just as dependent upon us for survival as we were upon it for our own. Although it grew a little more with every passing nanosecond, each iteration of its ceaseless expansion, it needed our help to remain healthy … just as we needed it to continue our frail, confused, fucked-up lives.

We had created our own successor. Now we would have to wait and see whether it would recreate us … or if it would leave that task to ourselves.

For now, my life was my own, for better or for worse. I was alive, I was well, and I had a deadline to meet. Maybe it’s not much, but what more can you ask for?

I turned up the collar of my overcoat and kept walking, making my long journey home through a city that no longer seemed quite so dark, a night no longer so deep.