Shattered Sky (8 page)

“We're negotiating a steep markdown.” Her shrimp boy hung another cocktail shrimp before her and she took it in her mouth, chewing slowly. “Very steep.”

The cruise executive moaned. “Please,” he said. “No more.” His voice came from deep in his throat, sounding as Lourdes's voice had once sounded in the throes of her own obesity.

Lourdes licked her lips. “Recently, I've found a depth to my appetites I never knew I had.”

“And yet it's the crew that gets fat,” observed Winston. “Not you.”

Lourdes shrugged. “I eat quite a lot; all that fat has to go somewhere.”

Winston shuddered. There was no end to the way they could abuse their powers, when they chose to—here was the proof. First it was just Lourdes's ability to control metabolisms; put people to sleep, change the pace of their body functions. Then she found she could manipulate their muscles, as if they were puppets. And now this; she stayed slim by imposing her weight on others. A perverse conservation of matter. Winston wondered how many times her own body weight she consumed in food a day. Did she ever stop eating?

“What happened to you, Lourdes?”

She sat up, pushing away the hand of her shrimp boy. “I grew up, Winston. I finally realized that the only person I owe in this world is me.”

“What about Dillon?”

“To hell with Dillon! He's the one who screwed things up. Whether he meant to or not, he set the world on auto-destruct, and if the world is falling apart, I intend to suck every last drop out of it.”

Winston regarded her pretty-boy twins. The dark hair and wan expression on their faces was uneasily familiar. “Your matching luggage both look like Michael,” he goaded. “Should I ask what that's about? Or do I already know?”

Her tanned cheeks began to flush at having been so easily
read. He could feel her anger, and perhaps a hint of shame, charging the air between them. Her feelings for Michael had been no secret—but enlisting these surrogates into her harem was a desecration of Michael's memory, and she knew it.

She stood suddenly, and like a petulant child grabbed the platter of shrimp and hurled it at Winston. It bounced off his chest and clattered to the ground, rolling down the steps to the pool deck.

“This is MY ship!”
she screamed.
“MY life, and MY reward for the hell I've been through!”
On the dance floor, the music stopped and all eyes turned to Lourdes. “And if you had half the brains you claim to have, you'd stop taking your marching orders from Dillon, or it'll kill you like it killed the others!”

Then her eyes darted around to the spectators, and she realized she was, as always, the center of attention, but this time in an unflattering light. As if to add to her embarrassment, several gulls winging high over the ship cawed in the silence sounding like mocking laughter from above. Lourdes turned her eyes to the sky, the birds' wings went limp, and they plunged, dead, into the sea. Then she turned to her profligate partiers.

“Dance!” she ordered. Suddenly their arms began to jerk and their bodies to undulate, involuntarily pulled by their puppeteer's unseen strings. Flustered, the band quickly kicked into another number. Satisfied, she released the dancers with the slightest flick of her head, and although their steps missed a couple of beats, they quickly took over for themselves, regaining the rhythm, and not daring to leave the dance floor for fear of what Lourdes might do.

“Don't look at me like, like I'm a monster,” she told him. “All of my guests are here by choice, because they appreciate me, and the pleasures I have to offer.”

“What about the crew?”

She hesitated before answering. “They know their place.” Then she turned and walked to an open-air bar farther back on her private deck, while her Michaelesque boys both hurried to clean the shellfish scattered on the ground. Even before she arrived at the counter, the bartender had mixed her a red and white “Miami Vice,” heavy on the Bacardi.

“Aqui tiene, Señorita Lourdes,”
said the bartender, stuffing a paper parasol and a pineapple wedge into the drink. He took a quick glance at Winston.
“¿Uno para su compañero?”

“No—he's underage,” Lourdes said, irrespective of the fact that she, too, was underage. She sat on a stool, ignoring him as she sucked down her drink, its daiquiri head flowing like blood into the Piña Colada beneath.

What troubled Winston most was how easily Lourdes had seized control of her guests' bodies on the dance floor. Used to be it took incredible concentration for her to control such a large group of people, but, like himself and Dillon, her powers were still exponentiating toward an end he still didn't know. It frightened Winston to think what Lourdes might do if she ever really got angry.

Maybe it was best after all for her to be queen of her own little ship, her dominion limited to the souls on board, slaves and followers who were resigned to subjugating their will to hers. Let her have her ship, so that she might be satisfied, and extend her grasp no further.

Leaving her to vanish again to the horizon would certainly be the easiest thing to do, but for the shards, the path of least resistance always led to disaster. Winston knew that if Lourdes slipped off his radar again, it would be a dangerous step backward.

He came up behind her, waiting for her to turn around, but
she didn't, so he sat beside her at the bar. “There is something we need to do, Lourdes. You, me and Dillon. I'm not sure what it is, but it keeps me awake at night, and when I do sleep, I dream about it. You have to be feeling it as much as I am.”

She slurped down the bottom of her drink. “I don't feel a thing.”

“You're lying.”

She turned to the bartender. “Gerardo, one more, please.” Winston dimly recalled that she had a brother named Gerardo, and Winston found himself not wanting to know if she had put her whole family to work here. The bartender mixed her another drink, but by the time he slid it onto the counter, Lourdes had lost interest. She sauntered past Winston to the railing, looking out at the Ensenada shoreline.

“You've been dreaming, too, haven't you, Lourdes? About someone in a purple chair. And three figures on the ledge of a building.”

Lourdes sighed. “It's not a ledge, it's a stage. Three performers taking bows at the edge of a stage, surrounded by the flowers thrown by the audience. I can smell them. And the chair's not purple, it's lavender.”

“What do you think it all means?”

“I don't care.” That was a lie, too, but this was one she was sticking to. She had almost softened, almost shown a hint of her old self, but now the expression on her face solidified to granite. She strolled back to her lounge, and, resuming her position of leisure, she called to her boy toys. “Paul, Eric, it's time for our visitor to leave. Throw him overboard.”

The two brawny men advanced on Winston.

“What?!”

“No—wait!” said Lourdes. “After all this
is
a pirate ship. Make him walk the plank!”

Gerardo brought her the drink she had left at the bar, and she began to suck it down gleefully.

While the boy toys held him, two fat crewmen bounded off, returning with a long table from one of the decks below, and cantilevered it out over the side. By now the event had drawn the attention of Lourdes's guests and they crowded the rail, chattering and laughing as if this were just another bit of entertainment.

They prodded Winston onto the makeshift plank.

“Lourdes, don't do this!”

“Oh, please,” she said. “We're barely half a mile from shore, and the water isn't that cold. Humor me.”

Winston stood at the end of the plank, seven decks above the Pacific, being cheered on by Lourdes's hordes. No, thought Winston, the fall wouldn't kill him, and neither would the swim. But it was not his well being he was considering. It was Lourdes's. They had all been affected by the events in their lives, misshapen in many ways by what they had been through. Lourdes was broken, and he doubted even Dillon could fix her now.

“Good-bye, Lourdes.”

With the cheering crowd behind him, and without looking back, he jumped into the sea.

The fall seemed to stretch on for a sickening eternity, and then the sting as he hit the water was quickly numbed by the chill. He surfaced beside the great ship, still hearing the cheers from above. The water was cold but not frigid, and although half a mile was a long way for an untrained swimmer to go, Winston stroked, finding his desire to put distance between himself and Lourdes enough motivation to propel him to shore.

T
RANSCRIPTION EXCERPT, DAY 193. 13:45 HOURS
.

“Pigeons pray. Did you know that, Maddy?”

“I never noticed.”

“They did a study. Take a pigeon, put it in a cage, then feed it at random intervals regardless of its behavior, and pretty soon it starts to do some weird things—like hopping on one leg, or spinning in circles, or bowing its head over and over, as if that's what brings on the food. ‘Religious behavior' they call it.”

“The prayers of pigeons.”

“Exactly.”

“What makes you think their prayers aren't answered?”

“You know, Maddy, sometimes you remind me of someone.”

“Do I remind you of Deanna?”

“She also would have championed the prayers of pigeons. And she'd make you believe they were answered.”

“I'm a poor substitute for the goddess of faith.”

T
ODAY
D
ILLON WAS FACED
with a dead horse on a veterinary gurney.

Flies buzzed in a hazy cloud about its body and in and out of its nostrils. By the stench that filled the cylindrical expanse of the cooling tower, Dillon could tell the beast had been dead for quite some time.

Zero Team had been replaced by a single “zeroid,” as Dillon called him. A few minutes earlier, the zeroid had assiduously wheeled Dillon from his cell, through the connecting
corridors, and out to the now familiar spot on the center of the cooling tower. The only difference was that Bussard attended his transit now to make sure that Dillon did not speak to this man. Once positioned in the center of the cooling tower floor, the zeroid exited to his ready room, to wait in an informational void, never knowing what went on in his absence. Then Dillon would be alone with Bussard—an unpleasant circumstance, even if he hadn't been locked down in an exoskeleton of tempered titanium. Sometimes Bussard would take the time to brief him on the nature of the “therapy session.” Other times he wouldn't bother, since it was Dillon's presence, and not his comprehension, that mattered. Then from his custom-built remote control, Bussard would open the door to the guest waiting area, and the circus would begin.

Usually it was the dignitaries and statesmen of any and every nationality. Some walked in under their own power, others were so weak from the ravages of disease that they needed to be wheeled in. Bussard would then show off Dillon like a trophy to those conscious enough to care. They would be allowed the honor of basking in Dillon's peculiar incandescence for up to an hour. Then, regardless of how they came in, they would walk out under their own power, their vitality restored. They would then go for blood tests and MRIs elsewhere in the plant, tests administered by military physicians who, like everyone else, were insulated from the purpose of their task, never seeing those test results, or knowing their significance.

“Funny that people come to a nuclear plant to get cured,” Dillon had once commented during a well-attended session. Bussard didn't find it funny, however, and when the guests were gone, he had hit the red button on the side of his remote, sending a surge of raw electricity through him. Now Dillon
didn't say anything during the sessions. He saved his comments for those times he was left alone with Bussard.

“What do you get from these people?” Dillon once asked him, for it was obvious that this kind of operation was not an altruistic endeavor—but Bussard merely invoked the “it's a matter for military intelligence” clause, and left it at that. But Dillon really didn't have to ask—he knew; he could read the pattern in the parade of visitors. Thanks to Dillon, life was now a bankable commodity. Every second spent in his presence was a quantum of health doled out with due diligence to those whose health best served the interest of American security. What diplomat or world leader would not mortgage their nation for a shot at eternal life?

And now there was a dead horse; a lump of flesh and bone not ten feet away from Dillon's exoskeletal chair. Not even Bussard could stand the stench, covering his mouth and nose with a handkerchief drenched in cologne. But the stench quickly faded, and a cold wind swooped down the wide throat of the cooling tower to clear its residue. It only took but five minutes, and the horse whinnied in terror. Bussard quickly called in a team of wranglers as the animal flipped itself off the gurney, sending it clattering against the concrete wall.

“Subdue it,” Bussard instructed, “and bring it to the loading dock.” No doubt there was a horse trailer waiting. The men set themselves to the task. By the unremarkable look on their faces, it was obvious that these men did not know the horse had been dead just minutes before; they were only given orders to remove a horse. And the zeroid never knew there was a horse at all.

Once the animal was removed, Dillon spoke.

“Why? Why
this
, of all things?”

He half expected Bussard to ignore him, but today Bussard
deigned to give him a response, perhaps more out of embarrassment than anything else. “It belonged to the daughter of the senior senator from Texas. We were asked to give it treatment, as a special favor.”