Broken Angels (19 page)

NINE

Darryl had heard the whispered words clearly: “Save the Children.” He figured Adam and Robert had probably missed them; neither of them had said a word about it during the discussion last night. Ava had whispered the words when Adam mentioned his children, and Darryl had recognized the popular phrase at once. It was certainly popular in some sections of Northern Virginia, where Darryl had seen it spray-painted on walls, scrawled on sidewalks, and— he distinctly remembered—finger-written in the dust of a long unwashed van. It had stood out because it was so different from the slogans and statements one usually read in the area’s graffiti, which were primarily the signatures of the region’s ever-multiplying street gangs.

Darryl had gotten up at dawn and spent most of his Sunday morning taking note of each location where he remembered seeing the three-word commandment. He hadn’t bothered to alert Robert to what he was doing. Or Adam. He wasn’t sure he had anything significant, and he didn’t want to waste their time with hunches, or waste his own good reputation on a lump of nonsense. Nor did he care to waste his entire morning fishing in an empty pond. He had a very important date, and didn’t wish to be late.

After triple-checking his list, making sure he’d noted every location he could remember, Darryl returned to The Burrow. board member Vince Ceniza greeted him ecstatically after inviting him into his office.

“I’ve completed a summary of my research based on your most recent trip to XynKroma,” Vince said. “Would you like to review and discuss?”

“Maybe later.” Darryl waved away the offer to take a seat. “Right now, I was hoping you could review and summarize something I’m researching.”

“Oh?” Vince sat on the chair he’d offered to Darryl. “What’s the subject?”

“Maybe nothing. Maybe a few things.”

“Have anything to do with the girl you and Robert brought in yesterday?” Vince asked.

“Maybe. Last night, when we met with Adam, she gave us a clue about where she might’ve been before we found her.”

Darryl explained his hunch. Vince only shrugged after hearing it.

“It’s not unusual for someone to inadvertently repeat a phrase they’ve seen written in a few places,” he said.

“Yeah, it’s a psychological thing,” Darryl said. “That’s why I came to you. I want to know why
she
repeated it. Because she saw it once, and only once, and it held special meaning to her? Because she’s seen it a few times and couldn’t get it out of her head? Because she had something to do with writing it? The phrase is only written in a few places, that I could find. If she visited those places frequently, even one of them, maybe we can trace and figure out her previous place of residence and her previous activities.”

Vince nodded. “You want me to compile and translate this information.”

“Yes,” Darryl said. “I need a map connecting all the locations and giving as much info about each one as possible, including previous ID terrorist sightings.”

Vince Ceniza’s official title was “psychologist,” but insiders knew him as the Institution’s “psychological mapmaker.” He spent much of his time sending willing travelers into XynKroma and recording their experiences in detail after they emerged. It was probably impossible to make a coherent map of such a chaotic realm, but Vince firmly believed that patterns could be discovered, that some sense
could
be made of the realm. And he thought a truly skilled traveler just might be able to effect some permanent change, some stability among all the chaos. But he didn’t focus all his talents on mapping Xyn. On Reality’s surface, he was able to take bits and pieces of dissimilar ideas and hard facts, and then, like a seventeenth-century metaphysical poet, he could combine things that no normal mind would ever connect in order to reach a brilliant conclusion. He was Darryl’s favorite board member. The two of them could talk for hours when Darryl wasn’t busy.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Vince said. “In the meantime, I’d really like to discuss my report of your last trip to Xyn with you. Understanding it could have serious consequences. During your next trip there, you’re
very
likely to become susceptible to—”

“I’m sorry,” Darryl said as he started toward the door, “but we’ll have to talk about it later. I’ve got to hurry and catch Zel.”

Darryl thanked Vince again as he left his office. He greeted Zel just as rapidly after being invited into the toymaker’s workshop.

“Coming from Vince?” Zel asked.

“Yeah.”

“Had a nice long chat?”

“Long enough,” Darryl said. “I’m short on time.”

“What’s up?”

“I need to speak to you about my corresq.” Darryl handed him the silver toy.

“Something wrong with it?”

“Not necessarily,” Darryl said, “but any chance you’ve made an improved version?”

“Haven’t,” Zel said, “but could. Any suggestions?”

“It’s a little too rigid. Is there any way you could make one that I could, say, adapt to any situation at hand?”

“You mean create one made of a pliable metallic substance? Something that can be changed into different shapes?”

“Yeah, a softer metal,” Darryl said, “like the key-tool you made for me. I get a little tired of having to work with a circle all of the time.”

Zel laughed. “That’s interesting. Most people tend to think of Robert as a real square.”

Darryl didn’t get the joke. “I have other thoughts about him,” he said as his attention turned toward the laser instruments hanging on a nearby wall. “But they’re not worth discussing now.”

“You know, before I get started on this,” Zel said, “have you considered maybe there’s nothing wrong with the corresq? You can already make it suit any and every need that might arise—but maybe whatever faults you see in it are, possibly, attributable directly to you?”

“I’m sorry?” Darryl turned his gaze back to the engineer.

“‘I’m sorry,’” Zel repeated. “A common phrase spoken by those who lack confidence.”

“I don’t lack anything but reliable assistance.”

“And I’ve heard your assistant say the same thing.”

“The corresq talks?”

“I’m talking about Robert.”

Darryl wanted to shout, but he looked at the floor and took a long breath before responding. “Mister Bernard, he’s not something I want to talk about right now.”

“Diverting your attention, lack of concentration,” Zel said. “Another telltale sign of what your real problem may be.”

“I’m not diverting anything. You’re the one who keeps bringing my partner up. I just want to know if I can get a new and improved corresq, and how soon.”

“I’ll work on it, but it won’t be a total solution. Among others, at the very least, will you please make an appointment to see the Institution’s physical trainers? Go through a thorough workout and assessment?”

“I’ll think about it,” Darryl said. “Right now, I’m running late for another appointment.”

Darryl had stopped running an hour ago, just making it. Now seated, he nevertheless felt as if he were on an inclined treadmill, one that sped up with each step.

He was enraptured in her voice, her words. Sin Limite seemed to be literally moving him—until the final tug and shove of the song’s last few words.

Darryl had only one comment after the music ended and she took her bow.

“That was pretty creepy.”

Vanessa Blake smiled at him from across the table. “Well, their lyrics aren’t for the faint of heart. Or the feeble of mind.”

“And you’ve written how many songs for them?” he asked.

“Only a few,” she said. “And only when they’ve asked. Usually I just try to point The Phantasie in the right direction for their inspiration.”

“Like
The Blackbook of Autumn Numbers
?”

“It’s as good a source for quality lyrics as any.”

Darryl took another sip of his orange juice and turned back toward the stage where the same group was performing from the same playbook as when he and the blonde had first met. He noted the coincidence shortly after he entered the dawnclub and joined Veronica at the table she’d reserved. She told him it wasn’t a coincidence. She’d asked him to meet her at this particular lounge because Phantasie’s rEVEnge—a group she happened to manage and promote—would be performing. She had to be here. And they were in luck because the lounge’s food happened to have an excellent reputation. Darryl nevertheless had opted only for fresh fruit, unbuttered toast, and pulp-free juice. He wasn’t in the mood for anything that would weigh heavily on his stomach. Too much was already weighing heavily on his mind.

It seemed nothing could weigh Veronica down. She was already on her second stack of mixed-fruit-topped pancakes and her third cup of green tea. Darryl had initially insisted on paying for the entire meal, but he was half-glad she demurred, insisting they split the check instead. He’d pay for his food, and she’d pay for her own. It was just as well. Coherent fractions seemed to make more sense to Darryl now than deceptive wholes.

For most of the morning, his thoughts had been running through a multitude of subjects, concerning the past, present, and future, all at once: maybe he really was shirking his responsibilities with the IAI; Veronica would have to be fixed, set on the bright path, and soon; the performers on stage were really unique and interesting, like nothing he’d ever seen before. His head had begun to hurt. Darryl was thankful at least the music had been pleasant.

Then two new singers began a new song.

Their convoluted lyrics had not been adapted from
The Blackbook
. When the music started, and before the singers began, Veronica leaned over to whisper it was a new song she’d just written for them. The duo on stage would be portraying an angry husband accusing his wife of being too energetic and loving with others, and an unhappy wife accusing her husband of being everything he shouldn’t be with her. The two threw pointed lines at each other, singing them in such a way that their voices and the lyrics flowed seamlessly while the two gestured and moved around the stage, seeming to fight and dance simultaneously without even touching each other. They sang on for six minutes, their lyrics increasing in complexity until the end.

“I loved that,” Darryl said, applauding as the singers bowed. He didn’t necessarily understand it all, but he’d been entertained. “They’re good.”

“Harold and Harmony,” Veronica said. “They were performing as a duo called ‘Red Redemption’ before I recruited them for The Phantasie.”

“The woman—Harmony, I presume—is particularly good.”

“Good woman, and great women,” Veronica said. “The first noted for what she does for man in the present, the second remembered for what they didn’t do to men back then.”

Darryl almost choked on his toast as he turned to look at her. He recognized the words immediately. It was a quote, lifted and recited, almost intact, from the Yellow section of his favorite book, the book of his life.

As he continued to hack, trying to get the crumbs out of his windpipe, Veronica took a casual sip of her tea, looking at him over her teacup with a bright and rheumy blue eye. She picked up a raspberry from her plate, smiled, and said, “Yes—I’ve read it,” before sticking out her tongue and placing the raspberry on the tip of it.

“You’ve read
Death’s Heart?”
Darryl finally managed to say after swallowing some orange juice.

She nodded. “All of it. In fact, I acquired a very good copy some time ago, but it’s been a while since I’ve leafed through it. After I left you yesterday afternoon, I dusted it off, just to refresh my scary memory on a few bits and pieces.”

Darryl conceded her memory was “scary.” The word could also be used to describe her intellect, its ability to make leaps. On Saturday, he’d only quoted from
Death’s Heart
three times, and he’d only made an indirect reference to the book’s title. One day later, she was quoting from it. As he’d suspected, Veronica was different. She was different from all those who’d come before.

“I only wanted to begin solving the mystery of Mister Ridley,” she said.

Darryl had been staring at her with questioning eyes, and an open mouth, while the aches in his head seemed to increase their pressure. He was discomforted, but he couldn’t continue to show it—displays of uncertainty were signs of moral weakness—so his lips gradually drew together until they’d formed a smile.