confuse any scanners that might not have been taken out. Marta nodded, releasing her grip. “I don’t know the details about Luke,” Perry said, “just what was in Dorrie’s letter. Fighting in Syria, a surprise attack, the usual. There’s so much damn secrecy about what goes on there, I doubt we’ll ever know for sure. And you know how Dorrie worries. The docs told me to protect her from traumatic news — no netpapers, no vids, screen her calls, especially from Syria. Somehow I missed one and she got the news instead of me.”
“You — this you — can’t go to your apartment, if that’s what you’re thinking. They’ll figure out you’ve duped before you’re halfway to the building.”
“I know. That’s why I need you. I need you to break the news to her before she gets official word. Prepare her for it.” Reaching into his jeans pocket, Perry produced a key. “This’ll get you into the building,” he said, wrying adding, “It’s a duplicate.”
“Perry, I’ll do what I can. But you know as well as I do —”
“I know. And I appreciate it. I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t desperate.”
Marta wrapped her hands around Perry’s to take the key. “How long?” she asked. “How long until you’re no longer duped?”
Perry’s attempt at a brave scoff when he told her couldn’t hide his underlying distress. By any measure, it was a long time to survive without being detected.
“Ten days? Oh my God. What will you do?”
With a wide sweep of his arm, Perry gestured at the littered wasteland of ’ganger territory beyond. “When in Rome ….,” he said, trailing off.
“Be careful, Perry. If something happens ….”
“I know,” he replied. “Believe me. I know.”
As Marta turned to walk away, stuffing the precious key into her own pocket, Perry had one last question. “Why the fuck do they call in Zunzhine, anyways. Who ever OD’d on sunshine?”
* * *
Perry watched himself from a distance, through a warehouse window streaked with the greasy residue of a city’s decay. His makeshift bed lay behind him, an ancient mattress he’d dragged to the squalid quarters he’d called home for the last ten days. The remnants of what once passed for a blanket lay heaped on top, the only thing that had provided weak protection from the enduring cold. The surrounding litter of empty bottles and torn packages archived a memoir of the meager food and drink he’d managed to scrounge.
He stroked his rough beard, a talisman that marked him as having grown far older and wiser in his few days living among the chrongangers. He probably shouldn’t watch, but nor could he tear his eyes away from the unfolding drama.
He spotted Jake down the dark alley, distant from his other self, watching the nervous patterns of movement. Shit, Perry cursed himself, could you make yourself more obvious? He marked himself as an intruder almost boastfully, patting the envelope in his pocket far too often, darting his eyes indecisively between the feeble light and the shadows, pacing in the manner of marked prey. If anything, Jake looked amused by it all, finally kicking a stone that made his other self jump while desperately trying to look so very composed.
The moment he saw himself swig the taste of timejuice, blinking out of existence, Perry snapped open Ari’s mobile. He could call at will now, no longer duped.
Dorrie didn’t answer. Not the first time, nor the second, not even on the third try. Finally, he punched in Marta’s number.
“Perry?!” Her voice sounded immediately distraught. “What have you done?”
“What do you mean? I tried Dorrie but I can’t reach her.”
“She’s dead, Perry. Of course she’s dead. She killed herself a week ago, and the cops are asking questions — they’re asking me questions.”
“You? Why? You didn’t reach her in time?” Fear welled up in Perry’s heart, recalling the last words Jake shared. Beware the Universe. She be one capricious bitch.
“It was a lie, Perry. A goddamn lie.”
“What? I don’t understand.”
“Luke’s alive,” Marta insisted. “He never died in Syria. Only one person told Dorrie that he had, and only because you made me. It was a lie, Perry.”
Like creatures who sense the approach of a coming storm well before the first cracks of thunder, ’gangers began spilling from their hiding spots. Perry watched through the window as some ran through the streets and others popped quick doses of the ’juice. He stayed lost in his thoughts even when he heard the first sirens approaching, desperate to understand.
But sometimes the capricious bitch gave no answers.
~~~
About the author
Patrick M. Boucher is an author, attorney, and scientist living near Denver, Colorado. He writes both fiction and nonfiction.
Connect with him online:
Personal website: https://pmboucher.com
Blog: https://juriscientia.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/pmboucher
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pmboucher
LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/pub/patrick-boucher/5/468/187
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