Xombies: Apocalypse Blues (41 page)
Read Xombies: Apocalypse Blues Online
Authors: Walter Greatshell
We passed uneventfully through the barrier and continued down a long, gentle grade to the sea.
At one point in the drive, Sandoval asked, “Would you like to see where we’re going?” When I gave a tentative nod, he directed me to a small window up in the vehicle’s turret, resting his hand on my waist as I looked.
Out across the ice was another dome. A lone bubble, dimly glowing in the moonlight.
“You know, Lulu,” he said, “without Agent X to bring us together, we might never have met.” Then he kissed me.
As we pulled up to the dome, men helped us out of the truck and hustled us inside. We passed through a drumlike revolving door, then a large antechamber full of parkas and boots, and finally a heavy flap bleeding warm air. I could hear music. Our escorts parted the curtain, and my mouth fell open at the sight that greeted us.
It was green. Live green grass as far as the eye could see, an achingly sweet-smelling park with sweet music filling the air and banks of stadium lights making the place look like a concert on a summer night. It
was
a concert. A silvery voice sang the refrain from a mellow Beatles song.
was
a concert. A silvery voice sang the refrain from a mellow Beatles song.
“That’s a lotta sod,” said Sandoval, enjoying my reaction.
Rising like a monument from a flowered mound in the center of the grass was the submarine’s fairwater, its dive planes hung with bunting, and four musicians dressed in Sgt. Pepper regalia atop the starboard wing. It was the Blackpudlians. Their lurid purple and yellow stage lights shone hotly on the spectators below, turning them into violet cutouts limned in gold. The turf at the base of the mound was incised with a deep, emerald-lit hole—a bottomless spring with porcelain sides, cut as cleanly as if with a cookie cutter. Surrounding the pool and fanning out across the lawn in all directions was a crowd of exquisitely dressed men—and
women
. Beautiful young women . . . just like me.
women
. Beautiful young women . . . just like me.
Tuxedoed waiters with trays of cocktails circulated through the crowd, eager to please, and as one of them approached us with champagne, I noticed it was Dr. Langhorne.
“Jim! How nice to see you!” she said, not sounding at all sincere. “Care for something cold?”
“Why thank you, Alice. I just might do that.” He picked up a glass.
“And your little friend?”
“She can speak for herself. Lulu, you two have met, haven’t you?”
I nodded, unsure why Dr. Langhorne was so angry.
“Sure, we’ve met,” she said. “We’re just a couple of soul sisters, aren’t we?”
Turning serious, Sandoval leaned toward her, and asked, “Everybody ready?”
“All is in readiness, sire.” She gave a mocking curtsy.
“It better be. It’s all or nothing now.”
“You’ve always been able to trust
me
.” Without offering me champagne, she smiled poisonously, and said, “Well, I’ll be trotting along. If you two need anything, just give me a ring.”
me
.” Without offering me champagne, she smiled poisonously, and said, “Well, I’ll be trotting along. If you two need anything, just give me a ring.”
Sandoval smiled sheepishly, and said, “Already have, thanks.” When she was gone, he said, “Phew, she’s in rare form tonight.”
“What’s the matter?”
“She’s my ex-wife.” Seeing my dismay, he laughed, “Don’t worry about it.”
As we approached the fringes of the crowd, and people began turning to acknowledge Sandoval, I had another unpleasant shock.
“Oh shit,” I said under my breath.
The beautifully made-up girls that I had been so happy to see were entirely made-up. That is, they were not girls at all, but gleaming-coiffed boys. The boys from the submarine—
my
boys.
my
boys.
“Yep, a lotta sod,” Sandoval repeated.
They wobbled on their sinking heels and miserably marked my approach, some arm in arm with their brazen guardians . . . as indeed I was myself. I recognized Rick and Henry and Sal, Sasha and Derrick, Andy and John, Dexter, Todd, Dan, Freddy, Bryce, Tony, Aram, Kyle, Gen, Lucas, Chuck, Nate, Bill, as well as all the dozens of others whose names I had never properly memorized. Recognized them in spite of the blond falls and rubber boobs and killer clothes and expertly applied foundation and lipstick and eyeliner I knew so well: They had Miss Riggs written all over them, every one.
Their dates, the Moguls, smirked with joshing camaraderie, some more serious, more sneering, or more envious than others, but all completely in the game. This was their world.
It was as if a drain in my spine had become unplugged, and all my strength leaked out. I could barely stand. Sandoval felt me lean on him and took it for affection, giving me a squeeze. A scream welled up, and I forced it back, shuddering, admonishing myself to be as strong as the boys. But in my mind I screamed:
We should have died! Why didn’t we all just die?
I wanted to just start running, run free until someone put a dot on me and blew me to bits, but the solemn faces of the boys, weirdly savage in that Kabuki makeup, held me back. They smoldered with the harsh desire to live, and I was shamed by their hideous perseverance.
We should have died! Why didn’t we all just die?
I wanted to just start running, run free until someone put a dot on me and blew me to bits, but the solemn faces of the boys, weirdly savage in that Kabuki makeup, held me back. They smoldered with the harsh desire to live, and I was shamed by their hideous perseverance.
Sandoval whispered to me, “Now, Lulu, I know you’ll be extremely sensitive to these men’s feelings. They want to feel that their companions are every bit as feminine as you.”
I made an involuntary grunt of disgust.
“I understand,” he said. “It’s like a comedy, isn’t it? But unless you’d embarrass these men, you should be totally respectful. Otherwise, they might take it out on your friends.”
“What does that mean?”
“It
means
, most of these men are not homosexual. This is a big compromise for them. If they are humiliated, who do you think is going to suffer for it?”
means
, most of these men are not homosexual. This is a big compromise for them. If they are humiliated, who do you think is going to suffer for it?”
“Why don’t they just stop doing it, then?”
Sandoval chuckled, kissing the top of my head. “My innocent.”
I stood back demurely, wanting to retch as Sandoval was enveloped by his backslapping peers. The dolled-up boys and I regarded each other amid the swells with an all-knowing blankness, not saying a word.
More champagne came by on a cart, as well as iced caviar and oysters, and I accepted some—not only to appear calm, but because it was too good to pass up. The boys regarded me with loathing as I ate these delicacies. Apparently that was where they drew the line.
I began to notice that all the waitstaff were doctors from the research compound, including Dr. Stevens and even Rudy, who was standing off on his own next to a large pet carrier emblazoned RUFF RIDER. Their eagerness to please reminded me of teachers during Open House. In some way they were on trial tonight and were doing everything they could to make a favorable impression.
No one spoke to me, but Sandoval was congratulated again and again on his “coup”—the right to throw this party and get all these VIPs under one roof. Apparently it was an unprecedented feat of influence. The snide tone of these compliments suggested that he had forfeited a lot for the privilege . . . perhaps too much.
“You’re a romantic, James,” said an olive-skinned man with several chins erupting from his cravat. “A bloody dreamer! The extraordinary concessions you have made and the expectations you have raised—it’s shocking to a conservative man like me. It’s like the risk you take by claiming this little one.” He gestured at me as if I was a pet. “You have two women when others have none—it shows a lack of delicacy. Ah! But what can one do? You lead with your heart.”
“Not my head, eh, Ibn?”
“I hope not. It is your recklessness that is keeping the other egos in check. You are the lion tamer, James. They are afraid to cross you. But if you fail to impress them tonight, it will be every man for himself. Very bad.”
“That sounds like an ultimatum.”
“I said ‘if.’ But it sends a confusing signal when tremendous capital is expended for no apparent tactical advantage.” The fat man indicated the spectacle around us. “It smacks of desperation.”
“Then I’ve confused you.”
“Not at all! As a descendant of Shah Jahan, I admire great passion . . . as well as great folly. But either way, use plenty of raw force to back it up, yes?”
“I’ll try to remember that.”
We reached the pool. It seemed hazardous to me, that deep well in the ice, the Arctic Ocean depths right there in front of us. It was about the size of a large swimming pool, but it was bottomless. My skin crawled as I realized I could see part of the boat’s gigantic hull down there in the emerald dark.
Turning away, I asked Sandoval, “Why don’t I recognize any of these men? I’ve always been a wiz at
Jeopardy
, but I don’t see anybody familiar in here. Bill Gates or whoever.”
Jeopardy
, but I don’t see anybody familiar in here. Bill Gates or whoever.”
“That’s because those people were not the true arbiters of power, but only the front men. Wealth is not power—rich men are just cash cows; they generate capital, but those assets are not really theirs. It’s these men who control them, from within, just as they do political power. And can use them at will. They hold the keys to the kingdom, the secret passwords that open back doors into every significant enterprise on Earth.”
“How did they get them?”
“Birthright, for the most part. They wouldn’t be here otherwise, and they know it. That’s why publicity is not something a truly powerful man seeks, because it only reveals what an obnoxious parasite he is. But anonymity is a commodity like everything else, and he can buy all he needs. He operates through many layers of intermediaries in order to accomplish what he wants to in complete privacy and freedom. If his full range of interests was to be known, barriers would rise, so he makes sure he can attack from many different angles, using his pawns in business, government, religion—whatever—to do his bidding for him.”
“Why do they?”
“It’s their only purpose.”
“The corrupt ones.”
“‘Corrupt’ is a misleading word. It makes more sense to say ‘conservative,’ because they’re only doing what they’ve always done. Familiarity and tradition are much more effective tools of manipulation than money.”
Wilting, I asked, “Is that why the world was so messed up? With wars and everything? Because of you people?”
“Lulu, we’re not God. We can’t change human nature—all we can do is cash in on it. I’ll tell you one thing: Nothing purifies a corrupt or stagnant system better than all-out war. Total destruction can be healthy.”
“Would you say we’re healthy now?”
“Hey, at least the Arabs and Jews aren’t fighting anymore.”
Nearing the front of the crowd, Sandoval and I paused to appreciate the music. The Blackpudlians were wrapping up a blistering version of “Come Together”—they looked like they were singing for their lives up there, drenched in sweat. It was hard not to climb the flower bed and touch the sail. It was so unreal. I wanted to ask Sandoval what this evening was all about—what was the big mystery?—but the music was too loud for conversation. Some of the Moguls were weeping nostalgic tears, eyes closed in reverent appreciation.
The song ended, leaving a residue of applause like silt in a bucket after the amplified music, and the band took a bow. As they did so, a couple of them saw me and nudged the others. Their eyes seemed to say,
Look out.
I nodded back. Then they sardonically addressed the crowd, in character as John, Paul, George, and Ringo.
Look out.
I nodded back. Then they sardonically addressed the crowd, in character as John, Paul, George, and Ringo.
“Thanks. Thank you very much. It’s been grand—how often do you get to fiddle while Rome burns?”
“And without a fiddle, at that.”
“That’s a myth, John. The fiddle hadn’t been invented in Nero’s time. Only the lyre.”
“I hate bloody liars.”
“No, the
instrument
. Like what they play in ’eaven.”
instrument
. Like what they play in ’eaven.”
“What do they play in ’ell, then?”
“Apparently, old Beatles songs.” Rim shot.
“And now we’d like to introduce a man who needs no introduction. The magnanimous magnate who has made all this possible: Mr. James Sandoval!”
I was startled, though I don’t know why I should have been. Obviously, they had all been waiting for him to arrive. As applause rose and vanished into cavernous heights, Sandoval mounted the “stage” and accepted the microphone, saying, “Weren’t they great? Gee, what a treat.” He clapped for the band as they took another bow.
Someone touched my elbow, and I turned to find Dr. Langhorne standing at my side. Her eyes were intent on Sandoval, but she spoke to me:
“Enjoying the party?”
I didn’t know what to say.
“You should be,” she said grimly. “You’re the guest of honor.”
“I didn’t have any choice,” I pleaded. “I didn’t
know
. What was I supposed to do?”
know
. What was I supposed to do?”
“Shh. Listen.”
Without a trace of irony, Sandoval said, “Ladies and gentlemen, the Mogul Research Division and I are so pleased to welcome you all to this little shindig, which would not have been possible without your generous support. I do not exaggerate when I say that you gentlemen are carrying the world on your shoulders, or that your noble efforts to keep the flame of civilization alive will someday be the stuff of legend.”
This was the speech he had asked me to punch up. He gave a subtle signal, and the Blackpudlians began softly harmonizing—an undertone at first so soft as to be almost inaudible, accompanied by mournful-sweet strains of the electric organ, but rising.
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