catch. Inside, the axe-head. Twohundred thousand years old. Heavy with the weight of the ages. He hefted it inhis hand. It felt ancient and lethal. He dropped it into his jacket pocket,instantly deforming the jacket into a stroke-y left-hanging slant. He kicked thecoffee table over.
Time to go see Fede.
27.
I have wished for a comm a hundred thousand times an hour since they stuck me inthis shithole, and now that I have one, I don't know who to call. Not smart. Nothappy.
I run my fingers over the keypad, think about all the stupid, terrible decisionsthat I made on the way to this place in my life. I feel like I could burst intotears, like I could tear the hair out of my head, like I could pound my fistsbloody on the floor. My fingers, splayed over the keypad, tap out the oldnervous rhythms of the phone numbers I've know all my life, my first house, myMom's comm, Gran's place.
Gran. I tap out her number and hit the commit button. I put the phone to myhead.
"Gran?"
"Arthur?"
"Oh, Gran!"
"Arthur, I'm so worried about you. I spoke to your cousins yesterday, they tellme you're not doing so good there."
"No, no I'm not." The stitches in my jaw throb in counterpoint with my back.
"I tried to explain it all to Father Ferlenghetti, but I didn't have the detailsright. He said it didn't make any sense."
"It doesn't. They don't care. They've just put me here."
"He said that they should have let you put your own experts up when you had yourhearing."
"Well, of *course* they should have."
"No, he said that they *had* to, that it was the law in Massachusetts. He usedto live there, you know."
"I didn't know."
"Oh yes, he had a congregation in Newton. That was before he moved to Toronto.He seemed very sure of it."
"Why was he living in Newton?"
"Oh, he moved there after university. He's a Harvard man, you know."
"I think you've got that wrong. Harvard doesn't have a divinity school."
"No, this was *after* divinity school. He was doing a psychiatry degree atHarvard."
Oh, my.
"Oh, my."
"What is it, Arthur?"
"Do you have Father Ferlenghetti's number, Gran?"
28.
Tonaishah's Kubrick-figure facepaint distorted into wild grimaces when Artbanged into O'Malley House, raccoon-eyed with sleepdep, airline crud crusted atthe corners of his lips, whole person quivering with righteous smitefulness. Hecommed the door savagely and yanked it so hard that the gas-lift snapped with apopping sound like a metal ruler being whacked on a desk. The door caromed backinto his heel and nearly sent him sprawling, but he converted its momentum intoa jog through the halls to his miniature office -- the last three times he'dspoken to Fede, the bastard had been working out of his office -- stealing hispapers, no doubt, though that hadn't occurred to Art until his plane wassomewhere over Ireland.
Fede was halfway out of Art's chair when Art bounded into the office. Fede'sface was gratifyingly pale, his eyes thoroughly wide and scared. Art didn'tbother to slow down, just slammed into Fede, bashing foreheads with him. Artsmelled a puff of his own travel sweat and Fede's spicy Lilac Vegetal, saw bloodwelling from Fede's eyebrow.
"Hi, pal!" he said, kicking the door shut with a crash that resounded throughthe paper-thin walls.
"Art! Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell is wrong with you?" Fede backed awayto the far corner of the office, sending Art's chair over backwards, wheelsspinning, ergonomic adjustment knobs and rods sticking up in the air like thelegs of an overturned beetle.
"TunePay, Inc.?" Art said, booting the chair into Fede's shins. "Is that thebest fucking name you could come up with? Or did Toby and Linda cook it up?"
Fede held his hands out, palms first. "What are you talking about, buddy? What'swrong with you?"
Art shook his head slowly. "Come on, Fede, it's time to stop blowing smoke up mycock."
"I honestly have no idea --"
"*Bullshit!*" Art bellowed, closing up with Fede, getting close enough to seethe flecks of spittle flying off his lips spatter Fede's face. "I've had enoughbullshit, Fede!"
Abruptly, Fede lurched forward, sweeping Art's feet out from underneath him andlanding on Art's chest seconds after Art slammed to the scratched and splinteredhardwood floor. He pinned Art's arms under his knees, then leaned forward andcrushed Art's windpipe with his forearm, bearing down.
"You dumb sack of shit," he hissed. "We were going to cut you in, after it wasdone. We knew you wouldn't go for it, but we were still going to cut you in --you think that was your little whore's idea? No, it was mine! I stuck up foryou! But not anymore, you hear? Not anymore. You're through. Jesus, I gave youthis fucking job! I set up the deal in Cali. Fuck-off heaps of money! I'mthrough with you, now. You're done. I'm ratting you out to V/DT, and I'm flyingto California tonight. Enjoy your deportation hearing, you dumb Canuckboy-scout."
Art's vision had contracted to a fuzzy black vignette with Fede's florid face inthe center of it. He gasped convulsively, fighting for air. He felt his bladdergo, and hot urine stream down his groin and over his thighs.
An instant later, Fede sprang back from him, face twisted in disgust, handsbrushing at his urine-stained pants. "Damn it," he said, as Art rolled onto hisside and retched. Art got up on all fours, then lurched erect. As he did, theaxe head in his pocket swung wildly and knocked against the glass pane besidehis office's door, spiderwebbing it with cracks.
Moving with dreamlike slowness, Art reached into his pocket, clasped the axehead, turned it in his hand so that the edge was pointing outwards. He lifted itout of his pocket and held his hand behind his back. He staggered to Fede, whowas glaring at him, daring him to do something, his chest heaving.
Art windmilled his arm over his head and brought the axe head down solidly onFede's head. It hit with an impact that jarred his arm to the shoulder, and hedropped the axe head to the floor, where it fell with a thud, crusted with bloodand hair for the first time in 200,000 years.
Fede crumpled back into the office's wall, slid down it into a sitting position.His eyes were open and staring. Blood streamed over his face.
Art looked at Fede in horrified fascination. He noticed that Fede was breathingshallowly, almost panting, and realized dimly that this meant he wasn't amurderer. He turned and fled the office, nearly bowling Tonaishah over in thecorridor.
"Call an ambulance," he said, then shoved her aside and fled O'Malley House anddisappeared into the Piccadilly lunchtime crowd.
29.
I am: sprung.
Father Ferlenghetti hasn't been licensed to practice psychiatry in Massachusettsfor forty years, but the court gave him standing. The judge actually winked atme when he took the stand, and stopped scritching on her comm as the priest saida lot of fantastically embarrassing things about my general fitness for humanconsumption.
The sanitarium sent a single junior doc to my hearing, a kid so young I'dmistaken him for a hospital driver when he climbed into the van with me andgunned the engine. But no, he was a doctor who'd apparently been briefed on mycase, though not very well. When the judge asked him if he had any opinions onFather Ferlenghetti's testimony, he fumbled with his comm while the Fatherstared at him through eyebrows thick enough to hide a hamster in, then finallystammered a few verbatim notes from my intake interview, blushed, and sat down.
"Thank you," the judge said, shaking her head as she said it. Gran, seatedbeside me, put one hand on my knee and one hand on the knee of Doc Szandor'sbrother-in-law, a hotshot Harvard Law post-doc whom we'd retained as corporatecounsel for a new Limited Liability Corporation. We'd signed the articles ofincorporation the day before, after Group. It was the last thing Doc Szandor didbefore resigning his post at the sanitarium to take up the position of ChiefMedical Officer at HumanCare, LLC, a corporation with no assets, no employees,and a sheaf of shitkicking ideas for redesigning mental hospitals usingoff-the-shelf tech and a little bit of UE moj
o.
30.
Art was most of the way to the Tube when he ran into Lester. Literally.
Lester must have seen him coming, because he stepped right into Art's path fromout of the crowd. Art ploughed into him, bounced off of his dented armor, andwould have fallen over had Lester not caught his arm and steadied him.
"Art, isn't it? How you doin', mate?"
Art gaped at him. He was thinner than he'd been when he tried to shake Art andLinda down in the doorway of the Boots, grimier and more desperate. His tone wasjust as bemused as ever, though. "Jesus Christ, Lester, not now, I'm in