The Anarchists (10 page)

“. . .and we must decline. Thank you for your service. Now go.”

The kindly man donned a hat and walked back to the main transport. While Gabrielle minded after her brother, Harper and Charlotte stood next to one another in front of Micah’s blank marker. Harper rolled a small object inside her closed hand.

“The droids and service staff will take good care of them,” Charlotte said. She checked her appearance in a compact mirror. “Formalities are the last thing you need to worry about right now, but your family will be everything you’ll need later. It was that way for me when Harper had his accident. Afterward, I needed you and you were there. Micah and I had our differences, but I loved him.” She squeezed Harper’s fist. “Let me be here for you now.”

Until now, Harper’s ability to keep it together had strained under the day’s emotional weight. Her mascara did not run. Tears had been in limited supply. “This morning,” she forced out. “I scrambled eggs.”

“Yeah?”

“Mike liked them with a bit of pancake mix. . .makes them fluff up more. I used the stove, you know, old fashioned. He said it retains more heat that way. But he stirs them with a fork. It makes them look like crumbs.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“The kids eat them whatever way. So, I forgot this morning and used a spoon. He didn’t correct me, like he usually does. I forgot he’s gone, Mom. His got cold, so I ate them.”

“Keep up your strength.”

“Dad said all the time, ‘You can always make more money’.”

“I suppose that's true.”

“Because, if so. . .” Harper trailed off with sudden vigor. She opened her closed fist. In it rolled a fire-damaged, thumb segment-sized, blood red disk. “Why didn’t we have it?”

Charlotte knew the correct answer to the question, because she had asked a similar one of herself years ago. In time, her daughter would discover it, as well. To their left, another funeral gathered and would soon intrude upon them.

“In weeks, I’ll have more money in my account than I could want.”

Aware of the approaching company, her mother stood up and encouraged her daughter to do the same. “Harper. . .”

“Three times as much as we’ve ever earned as a household, at least.”

“It’s time to go. Say your peace.”

“There is no peace!” Harper’s bellowing frightened the children present. The grieving elderly ignored the outburst and filled in around them. Composing herself, Harper approached Micah’s placard, touched her lips and gently fingered the placard. The next service was for a woman who peacefully died at the nadir of life and not its zenith.

Harper would not say goodbye. “So long.”

The ride to Charlotte’s home went speechless. When the mother-daughter duo entered the room, the conversations continued. Glasses were filled and eating commenced without a pause. Silence and stares would worsen the already present discomfort. Robbed of many of their traditions, the James contingent expressed displeasure through mumbling. Their beloved would stay dead this day, but little had been said of his spiritual condition. He came from a rich lineage of faith and preachers, but those raised close to the faith often shunned it under pressure.

Harper did believe, and she took the children to church with her. But if Micah did not personally confess Jesus Christ, it explained the dark pall over the proceedings and her discomfort.

Some of the more radical believers there thought his violent end balanced the scales for his attempt at aborting his child. None would voice it. But Harper knew that they thought it and talked behind her back – even if they would not say so. Mentally, she strangled Micah’s trio of busybody, opinionated female cousins.

Someone finally came to check on her: Jackie, from the Genesis Institute. Harper never introduced her to Micah because of his affinity for exotic-looking women. She never remembered the woman’s ethnic name, so she named her “Jackie.”

The woman sidled up to Harper and passed her a plate of food. “How are you holding up?” 

Harper stuffed a finger sandwich into her mouth. “This baby’s been kicking my butt. Half the day, I’m nauseous, the other half, I’m ravenous. Don’t worry, I still have your money.”

“Don’t worry about it. Try the cous cous. It’s
amazing.”

She scooped the salmon-colored concoction onto a cracker and wolfed it down. “Seldom wrong and right again,” she said with a full mouth. “It's fantastic.”

“The managing partners and I talked. Take as much time as you need. Don’t worry about your sick days. A bunch of the others kicked in, so you’ve got time. I reallocated your patients.”

“Thank you for everything.”

“Listen.” “Jackie” reached out and patted Harper’s thigh. “There's no right time to say this, but you should consider talking to someone. Go see Dr. Nandor Adharma. He’s a psychiatrist and fantastic at what he does. He might be able to help the kids cope. Understanding death poses a difficult challenge for people at any age.”

Harper considered the offer a good omen. “I know the psychiatry spiel, thanks.” She gave a slight smile to her superior. “I think I’ll take a week or two.”

“Take three. You’ll need it. Arranging your life after something like this takes longer than you think and you never know how long until you’re knee deep in it.”

Her superior’s kindness overwhelmed Harper. For reasons unknown to Harper, all of her coworkers referred to their superior as a conniving, silver-tongued serpent. “I don’t know what to say. I think I’ll call him.”  

“Good. Call him any time. Tell him Kareza Noor sent you.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

January 13, 2050

“My name is Andre. I’m an alcoholic, but I’m beginning again.”

Piano music swelled and broke into a dramatic, sweeping decrescendo. Quick choral chords built as each different person introduced themselves.

“My name is Kelly. I’m a sniff addict, but I’m beginning again.”

“My name is Tamara. . .”

“My name is Jennifer. . .”

“Terran. . .”

“Sophie. . .”

“John. . .”

“Devon. . .”

“. . .I’m a thief. . .”

“. . .white collar criminal. . .”

“. . .gang member. . .”

“. . .quadriplegic. . .”

“. . .wife beater. . .”

“. . .I’m terminally ill. . .”

“. . .and we’re beginning again.”

The commercial ended with the Genesis Institute logo and a phone number, 1-888-BEGINAGAIN. Madison redialed every few seconds she spent alone, while Damario rehabbed his new synthetic arm and eye. Adharma’s advice proved true. The miracle drug stimulated healthy growth of the severed nerves to bond with the artificial ones wired to his new appendages.

When he slept, she assumed the dreams were vivid, as her husband’s moaning indicated pleasure. He’d awaken and stayed mum on what he had seen. The object of his enjoyment was his college sweetheart, Robinne Glasse. They broke up prior to Damario accepting his internship at G.R. Cooper and attending business school at Stern. Robinne lived in Philadelphia.  

With the busy signal operator in view from Madison’s holophone, Damario entered the room. He employed the use of a crutch and wore sunglasses to hide his eye, which looked like an antique LED. Soon, it would be fitted with synthetic skin to make it appear normal. “Still busy?”

She snapped the display shut. “How’s therapy?”

“If I didn’t know any better,” he said, limping towards the bed, “I’d think you were hiding something.”

“Have me investigated then.” She snapped her fingers. “Sorry. You already did that.”

“Ouch,” he winced with sarcasm. “Those lines are going to be jammed up forever. Everybody in America wants to know what ‘beginning again’ really means. The advertising is a little deceptive, but brilliant.”

“I think you wouldn’t be half as high on life, if they stopped giving you that drug.”

“I’m healing.” Damario sat at the edge of the bed and swung his good leg into it for leverage, then his sore and bruised one. “I have sensations other than pain.”

“Good for you,” she said, while loading a virtual magazine.

“Look, you don’t have to be here, Maddie. The bedside vigil’s really not necessary.”

“I guess not, since you have Robinne.”

He sighed. “Will you stop it with the Robinne stuff? Seriously!”

“Stop dreaming about her, D. Stop whispering her name in your sleep. If you want to reconcile, I did my part. I apologized, I severed the relationships. You do your part.”

Damario wondered if he could control the dreaming. Thus far, he had not tried, thoroughly enjoying each rendezvous with Robinne – the picnics in the quad, the college dances, and impromptu dates. Each journey lasted longer the previous one, and all ended before the physicality got extremely involved. Madison did have a point. Internally, he wanted a free pass to do what she had done. “Alright.”

“Don’t sound so enthused. It’s just our marriage.”

“I’ll do it,” he joyfully resigned. The change in tone satisfied her. “Do you have my holophone?”

She passed the silver object to Damario. “Here. Why?”

He dialed 1-800-BEGINAGAIN. “Let me give it a shot.” To his surprise, the phone connected right away.

“Hello, and welcome to the Genesis Institute and the Begin Again Initiative.” A brunette female greeted him. “Please wait while we verify your identity with an iris scan.”

Damario removed his glasses and hoped that the prosthetic had been coded with his genetic information.

“Good morning.” The holographic image arrested Harper’s attention. Other than a few blips in its presentation, the administrative professional looked authentic. A few of her curls even wobbled as her head moved. “Welcome to the Genesis Institute. May I have your full name?”

“Harper Charlotte Lowe. I have. . .had a 9:30 meeting with Dr. Adharma, but the crowd outside. . .”

“You’re fine,” she reassured. “We allow an extra 45 minutes for his appointments. The excitement surrounding our “Begin Again” initiative is spectacular, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but what is it exactly? And why do people want it so badly?”

“Everything in time, Miss Lowe,” said the annoyingly pleasant program. “Follow me, please.” She rose from the projection machine seated in a high-backed office chair. As she did, the hologram replicated itself at the desk. Harper wondered how the hologram’s stiletto heels clicked against the black marble floors, as if the secretary actually existed.

“The Genesis Institute exists for the betterment of humanity,” she explained. “Accordingly, we focus our talent and resources on revolutionary advances in the physical, mental, relational, and financial well-being of the international populace.”

What does all of that mean?

“In other words,” said the assistant, as if reading Harper’s thoughts, “if there's a way to push mankind to the unlimited depths of its potential, we will be involved.” 

“Does that include the ‘Begin Again’ initiative?”

The smiling assistant waved her hand in a welcoming flourish, which opened the sliding door in front of them. “Doctor Adharma will see you now.”

Harper entered the door and watched the assistant vanish into a miniscule light diode embedded in the baseboard of the hallway.

“Miss Lowe.” A thick Indian accent beckoned her. “Please join me.”

Harper complied and shook hands with the doctor. “Pleasure to meet you. My boss just raves about you and the work that you do.”

“Ahh. . .Kareza.” He relished saying the woman’s name. “I would not be able to accomplish much without her helping hands. Please have a seat.”

“Thank you.”

The two sat a few feet apart, separated by a thick fiberglass desk. It housed an enlarged computer projection console. To operate it, Adharma wore specialized gloves with memory chips implanted in the finger pads. Harper coveted the technology for her office.

“I heard your boyfriend had been killed.” The doctor’s words exuded sympathy. “My condolences and apologies.” 

“Thank you.”

“What’s your mental state right now?”

Harper tasted the inside of her mouth and paused. “When I close my eyes, I still see the accident. I smell the burning, and. . . it. . .” She stopped to collect her thoughts and to keep from weeping.

The doctor pushed his fingers a few times in the air on a display that Harper could not see with her naked eyes. “Have you slept?”

“Barely,” she admitted. “The kids sleep on his side of the bed. That helps me to forget.” 

“Taken anything for the insomnia?”

“I’d rather readjust naturally. I don’t believe in medicating problems away. Not everything can be cured by a pill or solution.”

“A peculiar ideology for a psychiatrist.” He swept his hands across the desk and typed on a virtual keypad. “Look at it as a means to an end. Your body needs rest to heal – even mentally. Open wounds get infected and fester. Then, what’s healthy becomes unhealthy.”

“I understand, but I disagree. What did insomniacs do before drugs were developed? How about different methodologies instead of pharmacology?”

“They drank themselves to sleep,” he chuckled. “Depressants have existed since the beginning of time, you know. I’m talking about a pill, not a hangover-inducing binge.”