Mortal Fear (42 page)

 PROMETHEUS> Would you like to join me in the Blue Room?

 My skin went cold. I sat paralyzed for a moment. Then I looked at the window on the left of my screen, which listed the code names of everyone in the lobby. Sure enough, “Prometheus” was there. I had got so used to looking at “Maxwell” that this older alias of Brahma’s had slipped right by me.

 Yanking off the headset, I sealed its mike shut with my thumb and shouted, “Miles! Get your ass in here!” Then I put the headset back on, said “yes” into the mike, and clicked into the Blue Room. Instantaneously, these words appeared:

 MAXWELL> I’ve been waiting for you.

 Even as I heard Miles’s feet pounding the floor, I answered into the mike and watched my words appear on-screen:

 ERIN> I think we’re about to be interrupted by someone who calls himself Prometheus.

 Miles was standing beside me by then. “Hit the space bar if you want to tell me something,” he whispered in my ear. “It mutes the mike.”

 MAXWELL> I am Prometheus, Erin. I use many names. But Prometheus fits me in many ways.

 ERIN> Why use Maxwell if you like Prometheus so much?

 MAXWELL> “Maxwell” has its own significance.

 I was tempted to ask him about the Beatles reference, but instead I pressed the space bar and said, “Miles, this guy—”

 “Say something to him!” Miles snapped, popping me on the shoulder.

 I fired an elbow into his leg and held down the space bar. “Listen, goddamn it! I just figured something out.”

 “What?”

 “I logged on first as SYSOP, not Erin, and he didn’t see me spying on the lobby he was in. It was only when I switched to Erin that he noticed me.”

 MAXWELL> Are you there, Erin?

 “He wasn’t aware you were lurking as SYSOP?”

 “Exactly.”

 “That means he probably doesn’t have SYSOP access himself!”

 “I know. Now get out of here. I need quiet.”

 “Remember the Trojan Horse,” Miles said, walking backward. “Make him want you.” Then he stepped out of the office and closed the door behind him.

 Brahma’s voice pulled my attention back to the screen.

 MAXWELL> Erin?

 ERIN> Sorry. The newspaper man came to my door.

 MAXWELL> Ah. You follow current events?

 ERIN> No, the obituaries.

 This was true. Twice during our interlude in Chicago, Erin sat in bed reading the
Tribune
obits aloud and making up outrageous stories that supposedly lay behind the sanitized life summaries of the rich and prominent.

 MAXWELL> The obituaries?

 ERIN> I’m eccentric.

 MAXWELL> You are interested in the death of Karin Wheat?

 ERIN> I barely even saw what they were talking about before you invited me here. It does seem interesting, though. Her death sounded so gory.

 MAXWELL> I’m sure that was exaggerated. The press makes its money pandering the prurient and the morbid. I was hoping we could continue last night’s conversation.

 ERIN> I’m tired of the mental sparring on this network. It’s all so juvenile.

 MAXWELL> What do you want from EROS?

 ERIN> I told you, I’m looking for someone.

 MAXWELL> The man with the soul of a woman?

 ERIN> That’s what I called it last night. It’s nothing that definite. It’s just a yearning I have.

 MAXWELL> Do you mean you wish to find this person and then meet him in real life?

 ERIN> Why not?

 MAXWELL> Most are afraid to transmit real information about themselves over the net. It may be a wise precaution. The world is full of disturbed individuals.

 ERIN> I’m pragmatic about that kind of thing. I figure when my time’s up, there’s nothing I can do about it anyway. Until then, enjoy.

 MAXWELL> You believe in predestination?

 ERIN> No. Fate.

 MAXWELL> What’s the difference?

 ERIN> Not sure. Maybe it’s one of degree. With predestination, everything’s laid out from square one. With fate, those ladies are up there weaving, but you have a certain amount of power to tangle the threads.

 MAXWELL> Yes? And death?

 ERIN> Well, I mean, you have some power to tangle, but the _length_ of the thread is predetermined from the start.

 MAXWELL> How interesting. You know mythology?

 ERIN> A nodding acquaintance. You?

 MAXWELL> All life is myth, when viewed from the proper perspective.

 ERIN> Whatever you say. You’re supposed to be the genius.

 MAXWELL> Please forget that. A little fillip of ego. In our last conversation you spoke of having no inhibitions. As though you have no shame.

 ERIN> I have shame.

 MAXWELL> Of what act in your life are you most ashamed?

 Déjà vu prickled across my neck and arms. For a moment I saw Arthur Lenz sitting at his computer in Virginia, pretending to be “Maxwell” as easily as he pretended to be “Lilith.” Then I remembered that Lenz had used the same shrink routine on Brahma. Brahma could merely be echoing the psychiatrist’s questions with me, consciously or not. Maybe Lenz provoked more of a response in him than I thought.

 ERIN> Would you answer the same question coming from me?

 MAXWELL> Yes. I have never committed an act for which I felt regret. All life is exploration, thus all acts are justified.

 ERIN> I don’t agree with that.

 MAXWELL> Ah. You believe in sin?

 ERIN> I don’t know about that. But there are certainly wrong choices.

 MAXWELL> No, only poor choices. And only from a given perspective.

 ERIN> But isn’t the idea of sin one of the oldest creations of mankind? It was there in Greek mythology just as much as in the Bible.

 MAXWELL> You answered your own question! Sin is a creation of man’s intellect. A Herculean effort to explain the eternal condition of sorrow in which he has found himself from the dawn of time. Look at Oedipus. The poor lad did all he could to avoid sin, yet ended up killing his father and sleeping with his mother. Murder and incest, all to illustrate the inevitability of man’s fate. The same with Job. Nothing was his fault. It was God having a wager with Satan.

 ERIN> No mortal act deserves punishment?

 MAXWELL> That’s a different question. Sin occurs in relation to God, not man. Look at Prometheus. He ridiculed the gods and their power, and he acted accordingly. He stole divine fire and gave it to man as a gift. He sinned against the gods, but blessed man forever.

 ERIN> And look what happened to him. Chained to a rock with his liver eaten by eagles for thirty years. And the liver grew back each night.

 MAXWELL> A nodding acquaintance, indeed! But remember, after paying that price, Prometheus was taken up to Olympus, where he resided forever among the gods.

 ERIN> Does that have something to do with why you use the name Prometheus?

 MAXWELL> Just so. Heroic men must often endure a period of suffering or darkness before their work is recognized.

 ERIN> You sound bitter.

 MAXWELL> I’m tired of dealing with squalid little souls. I yearn for a society of Ahabs but inhabit a world of Walter Mittys.

 ERIN> Now you sound like some kind of superrace nut.

 MAXWELL> I have my moments. Do you know Nietzsche’s quote about society? A people is a detour of Nature to get six or seven great men.

 ERIN> Yes, but that’s not the whole quote. The rest is, Yes, and then to get around them. Or something like that.

 MAXWELL> You amaze me.

 ERIN> Sometimes I amaze myself. I suppose you’re one of the six or seven?

 MAXWELL> Only time will tell.

 ERIN> I suppose women don’t fit into that equation of greatness?

 MAXWELL> Of course they do. Women are the gateway of the Absolute. From an evolutionary perspective, as critical as the male. They provide half the genetic code.

 ERIN> What do you mean, the gateway of the Absolute?

 MAXWELL> You have a child. A son, I believe. Did you deliver vaginally?

 ERIN> Yes.

 MAXWELL> Did you not feel, when your cervix dilated and the cramps exploded in your belly and your anal sphincter let go and the pain was like a scaly hand ripping you apart that you had been possessed—hijacked, if you will—by something infinitely larger than yourself?

 ERIN> Don’t remind me. But the answer is yes. It was like . . . I don’t know.

 MAXWELL> That was LIFE, Erin. LIFE seizing every cell in your body and bending you to its single-purposed will. LIFE is violent and uncontrollable and indescribably beautiful. Don’t you sometimes walk naked into the nurturing sun and scream I AM ALIVE?

 ERIN> I’m not usually that demonstrative about it.

 MAXWELL> You should be. LIFE IS EVERYTHING.

 ERIN> You don’t believe in an afterlife?

 MAXWELL> You do?

 ERIN> No. I told you about the thread, remember? When the thread runs out, it’s over. I just wanted to know what you thought.

 MAXWELL> For a moment I thought we had gone as far as we could go.

 ERIN> Are you married?

 MAXWELL> No.

 ERIN> Ever been?

 MAXWELL> No.

 ERIN> How old are you?

 MAXWELL> How old would you guess?

 ERIN> If you’ve really never been married, you must be young. Or gay.

 MAXWELL> I am not _gay_. I defy Nature in far more profound ways than that. How old a man are you looking for?

 ERIN> Age doesn’t matter.

 MAXWELL> Not in the man, you are right. But the woman must be of childbearing age.

 ERIN> You’re a real sexist, aren’t you?

 MAXWELL> A Darwinian sexist, perhaps. What do you visualize happening with this man you seek? You already have a son. Do you see yourself abandoning him for this man?

 ERIN> I don’t want to talk about that.

 MAXWELL> Your family?

 ERIN> My son. I don’t mind talking about my husband.

 MAXWELL> Why the selective affection?

 ERIN> It’s something to do with what we discussed before.

 MAXWELL> Sin?

 ERIN> Being ashamed. Having regrets.

 MAXWELL> You are ashamed of your son? You regret having him?

 ERIN> No. Only the way he was conceived. I guess you could say he was conceived in sin.

 MAXWELL> Through an adulterous relationship?

 ERIN> Not exactly. Worse, really.

 MAXWELL> I don’t understand.

 ERIN> It’s something to do with a sin you mentioned earlier.

 MAXWELL> I mentioned? But what? Murder?

 I didn’t respond. He’d get it fast enough.

 MAXWELL> Your son was conceived through _incest_?

 ERIN> Not exactly. It’s complicated.

 MAXWELL> But I must know!

 ERIN> I’ve said too much already.

 MAXWELL> But Erin, I can help you with this. I have specialized knowledge. We must explore this!

 ERIN> I need time to think.

 MAXWELL> Of course. Yes. I understand. But we must speak again. The soonest possible time for me would be late tonight. Possibly very early tomorrow morning. Is either of these times good for you?

 ERIN> Maybe. If I’m on-line, I’ll check the Blue Room. You can find me there.

 MAXWELL> And if not?

 ERIN> We’ll leave it to fate.

 MAXWELL> How very appropriate.

 ERIN> Good-bye.

 MAXWELL> Yes. Good-bye.

 After a giddy few moments staring at the screen, I called Miles back into the office. He snatched up the printouts of the conversation and read them with stunning speed.

 “You’ve hooked him,” he announced, setting down the pages. “You know, Brahma sounds a long way from crazy to me. I feel exactly like he does sometimes.”

 I took off the headset and pushed back from the computer. “Our conversations don’t have quite the same feel as his conversations with the other victims. I can’t put my finger on why.”

 “I know. I don’t think he’s looking at you as a potential victim. A donor or whatever. He’s interested in some other way. Just keep stringing him along. By tomorrow I should be finished with the Trojan Horse, and we’ll be ready for Phase Two.”

 “You sound like a bad movie.”

 He grinned. “I like bad movies.”

 That exchange happened four hours ago.

 Since then Miles has been coding more or less steadily. He seems to have scented the finish line, and only stops for fresh Mountain Dew. Now and then he’ll shout something like “FMH!”—which he explained was a polite form of “Fuck me harder!”—a hacker curse usually directed at some particularly annoying piece of software that refuses to behave as it should, in this case his Trojan Horse.

 I’ve read half a paperback novel, cleaned up the kitchen, and driven to Yazoo City and back, all in an attempt to keep my nerves steady. Knowing that the man we call Brahma is looking forward to his next conversation with me is more than a little unsettling. This connection is what I set out to establish, but now that I have, all I want is for Miles to finish his Trojan Horse so we can get the whole thing over with.