“The scientific community has been in heated debate for the past few days, discussing that very question,” Patrick said. “Perhaps Miracle Madame has been able to create some sort of force field around her. This is of particular interest to me as our research team has been studying molecular transfer.”
“The beam-me-up-Scotty phenomenon?” Peters joked.
“In the vernacular, yes.” Here, too, he had scientific theory but no real answers.
“Even if she were to tell us of herself could we trust her to tell the truth?” The words were spoken coldly, accusingly by Col. Romanoff, attaché to the Secretary General of the United Nations.
Gram scowled. “I don’t care for that woman.”
“Me either,” Ron said. “Would you like a Baileys?” Ron came back with the drinks just as the panel launched into a discussion regarding Em’s ease with languages. Dr. Margaret Wiggins, linguistics expert from Oxford, argued that many people were multilingual but the languages they spoke were usually not so disparate. Nor did she think Madame used an electronic translator. Peters said that detailed examination of film footage had revealed nothing of that nature.
“On the surface, what she is doing supports the tenets of the United Nations and all who wish to see peace,” Col. Romanoff said. “But, I suggest we look deeper for her true motives.”
“Maybe she hypnotizes her audience,” Anderson said. “Maybe she uses some sort of nerve gas. The possibilities are endless. She could be out for control of the world.”
“For her own nefarious ends?” The idea evidently pleased Col. Romanoff. Her smirk said it all.
Gram snorted. “She’s a nasty one.”
“The military and peacekeepers are not likely to embrace her.” Col. Romanoff sniffed. “If she continues to end strife, she will put us all out of business.”
Gram snorted again. “That’s the whole point, dear girl. You just don’t get it, do you?” She turned to Ron. “Someone needs to give that woman a talking to.”
Ron raised his glass in a salute to Gram.
“Some are saying that she is interfering with the divine will of God—”
“Maybe she is the divine will of God.”
“That, Dr. Patrick, is precisely the moral issue that we religious leaders are grappling with.” Rev. Marson looked pained. “Has she been sent by God? Is she trying to play God? Should we be idolizing her?”
“She’s not out to harm us, damn it. She’s here for our good, that’s obvious to anyone with half a brain.” Dr. Patrick half rose from his chair.
“How can you be so sure?” Col. Romanoff smiled condescendingly. “All, I’m saying is that—”
“Oh, good Lord, just listen to them.” Gram rose. “I can’t take anymore of this.” She patted Ron on the shoulder. “Goodnight dear.”
*
As we watched the panel, Elspeth grew increasingly agitated. “They’re so far off the mark it’s scary. Aren’t you worried?”
“No, it doesn’t really matter what they think. As long as they talk and talk and keep Em the center of attention, I’ll be happy.”
“It’s funny, thinking she’s an alien.”
“Yeah, they always forget they’d be aliens themselves anywhere off Earth.”
Suddenly Elspeth chucked. “That beam-me-up-Scotty thing was cute. Remember when you were in school and first started studying Earth, we used to watch that show. It was such a hoot. Didn’t have anything that much fun on my assigned planet. Exus was so boring.”
“Exus, wasn’t boring. You weren’t really interested. Back then, all you wanted to do was paint.”
Elspeth tilted her head. “Gotta go. My guy’s calling me.” She slipped away and I went back to watching Ron watch the panel. Poor sap. I could almost feel sorry for him but something nagged. Why did I keep seeing him? Of all the people on Earth, why him?
*
Ron awoke from a doze to see a guy named Smits interviewing Mustafa.
“You trusted a stranger and did what she said. Why? Weren’t you afraid? Did you not consider that she might be a ruse of the enemy?”
“Of course we thought of that. We’re not stupid. And no, we did not trust her. We did not want to listen to her. But, we had to. We were compelled to follow her. I can’t explain it, but there was something pushing us, a force of some sort, almost like a giant hand reaching out to guide us.”
“A force?” Smits sounded eager. “What do you mean?”
What did he mean? Ron wondered. A force of some sort exerted on Mustafa by her or a force of some sort exerted on her? An outside control would answer some of the questions? But what? Who? How? And, why?
“Something,” Mustafa said. “I don’t know. Something made us do as she said. Besides, it was a way out, don’t you see? An opportunity to act. We wanted to take the chance. We accepted the risk. We had to.”
Maybe it was as simple as that, Ron thought. A matter of people wanting what she offered.
“Mustafa, do you really expect us to believe that this mysterious woman who appeared from nowhere can be credited with saving the world?”
“I cannot speak for the world, but I can say with certainty that she has saved our country. We are a people not used to victory. And that is what she gave us today—a victory.”
As Mustafa turned his back on the interview, the camera caught a fleeting glimpse of François’ sardonic smile before the anchor segued smoothly to a station identification break.
*
“A fucking feeding frenzy,” I muttered.
“Pardon?”
I spun to see Mentor standing to my right. Oh, Guardian! How to get out of this one? “It’s an earth word,” I said. “A rude one. Please accept my apology.” I trembled and hoped I sounded humble enough.
Mentor inclined her head. “What’s troubling you?”
“I wasn’t really prepared for the reaction to her.”
“You know how they are.”
“Yes, but … it’ s… they’ve given her a stupid name and are tripping over themselves attempting to analyze and explain her. They never tire of saying the same thing.” An ache enveloped my heart, something I’d never experienced before. I didn’t know what to make of it.
“Isn’t that what you need?”
“Yes, of course, but it’s so extreme.”
“You don’t like what you don’t control,” Mentor scolded. “You’re very like her, aren’t you?”
I supposed I was.
“Over time, their fixation will suit your purpose.” Mentor offered some reassurance and I held those words close. “Can she cope with it?”
“I think so.”
“Watch.”
A television in a store window caught Em’s eye. How it could still be functional in the aftermath of the bomb blast was a mystery. Her face on the screen, of course. Why would that surprise her? She listened to various experts theorize about her. The debate grew heated, voices rose, tempers flared.
“She’s wondering which, if any of them, are right,” I said. Mentor nodded and shushed me.
They were breathless with excitement, tripping over their words as they attempted to describe the events, to describe her, to outdo each other with adjectives and boundless, effusive praise or a pretense of intimate understanding and knowledge and inside information. Only François, bless his heart, was cool, objective, and rational. But then, he had been there.
Em stared at the television, uncomprehending. How could they, how could anyone, possibly explain what she herself couldn’t?
“You see!” I faced Mentor. “It’s so hard on her.”
“Then don’t let her see.”
Such a simple solution. Take Em away from the media coverage.
Chapter 14
Em followed the trail of dried blood, dark red-brown splatters scattered at random on the road. They led her inexorably on. Her sandals sent up little puffs of dust as she walked. The intense heat consumed the atmosphere
and baked the land. But it wasn’t nearly intense enough to eradicate the reek of burned flesh and rotting corpses that assailed her as she moved forward, that gagged and choked her and made breathing almost impossible.
She covered her mouth and nose with her hands in an effort to mitigate the stench and plodded along doggedly. She had to find them. She did not look up, not even once, to examine the countryside or to scan the horizon. She looked only at the ground, her gaze never extending more than a few inches in front of her feet.
At last the blood trail ended in a large patch of freshly disturbed earth in the ditch beside the road. She dropped to her knees and began to dig, pawed at the ground with her hands like a dog searching for a buried bone, scooped handfuls of the soft, powdery dirt up and away behind her.
A few inches below the surface her hand encountered something. She continued to dig frantically, exposed an arm and then hair. She heard a young child cry and knew a deep desperation. She had to find the child. Had to.
She worked swiftly, ignored the nauseating odors, the blood and the rotting flesh. She brushed frantically at the maggots that crawled over her hands and up her arms, and continued to dig. The boy’s sobbing grew louder; transformed first to mournful cries of seagulls and then to bitter cawing. She looked up to a sky darkened with the wings of thousands of vultures. Ugly. Ugly. Ugly.
And still the boy cried.
She woke with a jolt, brushed her arms to rid herself of the maggots. Her stomach clenched spasmodically in revulsion. The silence surrounding her was broken a moment later by a dog as it shifted and yipped twice in its sleep. Reluctantly, she raised her arms and forced herself to look at them. They were insect-free and clean. She heaved a sigh of relief, reached down beside the bed to pet the dog. She gazed around her. Yellow walls, white window frames; outside the tree branches clouded with gently falling snow. Large flakes sparkled in the moonlight. Clean. Quiet. Calm.
She pushed herself to a sitting position. Bare feet hitting the cold floor jolted her fully awake. She rested her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands and stared at the hardwood. Short media bytes played in her head, which didn’t compute since she'd stopped watching the news a long time ago. Of course she couldn't avoid hearing what people said, the discussions that raged about her, in her own staff room, her own house, at the gym. Teachers, kids, neighbors, everyone had something to say.
Miracle Madame this, Miracle Madame that. What haven’t I done? What will come next? Do “they” know what they are doing?
*
“Morning.” Sue, already at her desk, waved hello. “Hey, you look pale. Come, sit. Don’t move. I’ll get you some water.” Sue came back with a glass and hovered while Em sipped. “Better?”
She nodded. “Yes, thank you. Bad dreams is all.”
“God girl, what’s new about that? You always dream.”
Not like this. These dreams are tied to my new reality. And I don’t know if I can survive it.
She welcomed the warmth of Sue's hand on her shoulder as she rested her head on the back of the chair and stared at the ceiling. She’d seen mass graves, heard the crying too damn often. She thought she’d come to terms with it, but obviously she hadn't.
Two nights ago, was that the gray dream? High gray walls on all sides, as far as the eye could see. Gray skies above. The men facing her nearly indistinguishable from the rest with their gray faces, gray garb, and gray guns.
Simultaneous shots.
Her body had jerked back and folded in on itself as she absorbed the force of the bullets. Falling, all around her, bodies falling, blood spurting, bright red blots on the gray.
She had woken to the chill of pre-dawn air, slashes of red shooting across her line of sight. She squeezed her eyes shut. Still the red was there. She covered her ears in a vain attempt to silence the echoes of the guns.
She opened her eyes and scanned the room searching for reassurance in the familiar.
Everything gray in the murky half-light of early morning.
Shades of gray.
Reliving, in the dreams, what she had already done. She’d been there, at the firing squad, and not a shot had been fired. The condemned men were free. Thanks to me—and them. She looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t know if I can take much more of this.”
“Of what?” Sue asked.
“Nothing.”
*
I watched Em and worried. The desperately sobbing boy she saw in her “dream?” Her son when he was little. The job was too much for her and I didn’t know what to do.
I would have liked to discuss my problem with other Powers, but asking questions would reveal my weakness. We Powers met regularly in the Grand Council lounge for debriefings with Mentor. I said as little as possible, but the others were confident and voluble. They were from the upper classes. I was a Drone. Enough said.
Clouds of fine silvery dust rose from the pages as I gently closed the ancient tome. I heard Mentor come in. Great. Just what I needed—her seeing me here in the library, knowing I was second guessing myself.
“Why the heavy research?”
“I do not want to overlook anything.” I tried to keep my voice casual.
“She is doing well.”
Surprisingly, this was not a question. “Oh, yes, even better than I had hoped.” Damn, too much excitement in my voice. I had to stay calm, stay rational but it was so hard. Em was so good, so wonderful. I couldn’t praise her enough.
“The right combination of qualities?” Oh, my Guardian, was Mentor teasing? “And she always has you.” Now why wasn’t that reassuring? Because I was flubbing the support thing? I couldn’t have Mentor catching on. I’d have to shift the focus to my Little Soldier.
“Yes, but,” and here I know I sounded proud, “she is doing more and more on her own. Acting fast and making good solid decisions.”
Mentor nodded. “You are going to meet with her.”
“Not yet.”
“Why delay?”
“She needs more time to understand her strengths, experiment, make connections.”
“Ah, that’s what the dreams are for?”
Damn, damn, damn. She knew about the dreams. “Dreams have always been a part of her life. I don’t send them, but I think they are good for her. I think they help her keep an emotional balance. They’re an outlet of sorts.”
Mentor looked at me quizzically. “I suppose that’s an Earth thing, what with all that emotion down there.”
I nodded and then took a deep breath. “I’d like to ask you something.” I’ll never know how I found the courage to say that.
“Yes?” Ooh, boy, the tone of her voice, the arch of her eyebrow; no question I’d overstepped the bounds. I plunged on, helpless to stop myself.
“Why am I seeing this Ron person?”
Chapter 15
Ron could hear Gram humming in the kitchen. He sniffed appreciatively. Ah, her famous pot roast, a Sunday tradition. The kids would be home soon and it was almost time for dinner, but still Ron was reluctant to turn away from the television. Obsessed! Why did his heart take him through this hell? Ever since high school…
Knowing he would get no respite now, Ron stopped fighting, sank back in his chair, closed his eyes, and let the memories take him back, to relive it yet again.
*
Elizabeth. He was hopelessly in love with her. Beautiful, popular, always the center of attention. He watched her for months, dreamed of her endlessly, and jerked off thinking of her.
He began to dial twice that God-awful evening, and a third time heard the ringing at the other end before he slammed the receiver down. He sat for a long time before reaching for the phone once more. After four rings,
“Hello.”
“Hello,” he croaked.
“Who is this?”
“Uh… it’s Ron. I wanted to ask you—”
“Ron who?”
“Conlin. Ron Conlin.”
“You’re the guy in the
back of history class?”
“Uh, yeah. I wanted to … that is … um … well … uh…. Would you go to the dance with me?”
There were several moments of silence, excruciating for Ron, then some whispers and the raucous laughter of more than one girl. Ron dropped the receiver shaking with mortification.
Unable to face school, Ron played sick for several days, sat at home staring blankly at the TV, eating and eating and eating.
Salvation came through a scheduling error the next semester. Drama? No way. He asked for a change. Sorry kid, all the other classes are full. You’ll just have to tough it out.
Drama saved his life. Engrossed in acting, he became the character; left his awkward, fat self behind.
Then Linda—popular, witty, kinder. “I like you Ron, but not that way.” Nancy—honors student, cheerleader; clever avoidance of answering with light laughter. Anne—homecoming queen, staring at him disbelievingly.
Why always the most unattainable?
College was better than high school, the artsy types more accepting. He was included and admired for his talent. The dancers were forever going to the gym. “Have to be strong to lift the girls, man,” his roommate Tony informed him.
Ron paused in his reminiscing to silently thank, for the millionth time at least, the gods, fate, lucky stars, or whatever the hell it was that had brought Tony into his life.
“You should workout with us,” Tony had said.
“I’ve never been. Wouldn’t know where to start.”
“No excuses buddy. Grab your sweats and get a move on. I’ll show you the ropes.”
Ron went, protesting all the way. Tony gave him some tips and left him at a universal machine. Within minutes Ron’s legs began vibrating. “Go easy Ron. I’ve been at this a while,” Tony said. “You’re in bad shape, man.” He laughed, slapped Ron on the shoulder and moved off to his next set.
By the time they were done, Ron hated the gym and everything about it, but Tony insisted he go back. To Ron’s amazement, he began to see a difference after a few weeks and, encouraged by the changes, went to the campus medical center for advice on nutrition.
With time, sweat, and serious dieting, he lost weight, and gained muscle tone and definition. Tony talked him into taking a couple of dance classes and those, along with the movement classes in his drama program, brought a grace and elegance that belied his size.
And Susan. Oh yes, Susan. The cruelest cut of them all.