His efforts were useless. I had died on the road and in the ambulance, and I died one final time in the operating room.
So how was it possible that I was lying on my back in the first-class cabin of a passenger plane as it traveled east toward a darkening sky?
When the plane reached New Delhi, I retrieved my suitcase, passed through customs, and saw an Indian driver holding a sign with my name. Miss Holquist had told me that my travel expenses would be paid by Transmotion Ltd., a corporation registered in the Republic of Mauritius. I had no desire to travel to an island in the southwest Indian Ocean to see if this company actually existed. Transmotion Ltd. could open a bank account and obtain credit cards. It could sue people and sponsor political ads in the United States, but I doubted that this legal entity had any products or employees. Like many international corporations, Transmotion Ltd. was both real and completely imaginary.
My driver led me to a car he called an Ambassador: a large, old-fashioned gray sedan with a rounded back. We passed through a control gate and then we were absorbed by India. The thruway into the city was still under construction and the car followed a two-lane road that snaked its way around detour signs and packs of scrawny men shoveling sand into cement mixers. A mud-splattered bus rolled past us packed with passengers, and I saw a family of four riding on a motorcycle: the baby on the fuel tank, the man clutching the handlebars, and a little girl wedged between her mother’s breasts and her father’s back.
Back in America, I could limit the power of the world by reducing everything to a series of flat images. But that wasn’t possible in this country. Waves of energy flowed toward me; it felt as if I was going to be knocked off my feet and pulled out to sea.
We passed a one-room hut near the edge of the road with a dirt yard and a tethered cow and four-foot-high cones of dried cow dung used for fuel. We passed a line of eucalyptus trees, each with a number painted on its trunk, and a water tank that looked like an orange animal with four legs and a flexible snout. Gradually, the buildings began to grow larger and there were wedding palaces and nightclubs surrounded by concrete walls topped with shards of broken glass.
A construction zone. The road disappeared and rocks clattered up in the car’s wheel wells. The Ambassador moved slower and slower until a man in rags stepped in front of us with a scrap of red cloth tied to a stick. This road flag was not just his job, but proof of his existence. Stop. He waved the flag again. Stop.
Tap, tap.
I looked left and saw the faces of three small children staring at me. Faces that looked as fragile as chips of dry clay. Stick arms and legs. Glistening eyes. One little girl was wearing nothing but a man’s T-shirt with a strip of fabric for a belt. She squeezed her fingers into a single point and rapped again on the passenger window.
Tap, tap.
“Beggars,” said the driver and shook his head. But I had no intention of rolling down the window and getting closer to them. Children bothered me. I had no idea where to place them in my system.
But children weren’t dogs or animals or the Dead. And they weren’t like the women with baskets of gravel on their head who trudged past the Ambassador. Small children radiated so much energy that it was difficult to predict their movements. It made me nervous to be around them.
The ragged man lowered his flag and our car lurched forward. Now tall buildings and crowds appeared and the car was surrounded by auto rickshaws—three-wheeled vehicles with passenger cages welded onto the back. Peering through the glass, I saw an elderly woman with a parasol, a pack of children sorting through trash, a Sikh with a handlebar moustache, and two white cows eating a mound of banana peels.
“Haan … Haan …” the driver chanted, and then the traffic stopped for no apparent reason. More beggars tapped on the window as a bicycle rickshaw man squeezed past us. He was pumping hard, standing on his pedals, while sharp shoulder blades jabbed inside his skin.
Finally, we passed through golden gates and followed a circular driveway to the Taj Mahal Hotel. Men wearing Nehru jackets and little white caps hurried out to take my suitcases. At the front desk, the hotel manager handed me a sealed manila envelope and told me that my room had already been paid for by Transmotion Ltd.
“Welcome to Delhi, sir. Please let us know if there is anything we can do for you.”
“I want to lie down.”
Two bellboys escorted me to a ninth-floor suite. They switched on the air conditioner and showed me that the bathroom faucets really did work. When I was finally alone, I opened the check-in suitcase that was filled with a travel supply of ComPlete. I drank a bottle, took off my shoes, and lay down in the middle of the kingsize bed. The hum of the air conditioner, the white plaster walls, the faint smell of the lavender laundry soap coming from the sheets and pillows were comforting. Whenever I read about hotels and restaurants in an in-flight magazine, the writers are always talking about places that are picturesque or romantic or historical. I desire none of those qualities. Bland is the truest expression of an advanced civilization. It took a great deal of money to create this pocket of cool, calm bland among the rickshaw men and the beggar children tapping on the car windows.
The envelope contained a plane ticket to a city called Ahmedabad in West India. An information sheet explained that the hotel would provide a car to take me to the airport and that another car would be waiting at my next destination.
Following Dr. Noland’s Rule #2, I took a shower and then slept until dawn. When I left the hotel at five in the morning, Delhi was a different city. The streets were quiet and empty, and now I could see the dogs that were hidden by the traffic in the daytime. In this country, the dogs knew they were dogs. They didn’t look friendly and eager for attention, but they were always aware of their surroundings. At this early hour, all the dogs were out, sitting separately, royally, as they surveyed their Dog Kingdom.
The plane to Ahmedabad was much smaller than the airliner that took me to Delhi, and most of the other passengers carried computers and attaché cases. I found my driver at the airport and we stepped out of the air-conditioned terminal into a wave of hot air that felt like a weight was pushing down on my Shell. Ahmedabad was surrounded by a ring of steel mills and textile factories and the sky looked like a blue bowl smeared with yellow chalk dust.
As we approached the central city, the streets became narrow and dirty and filled with carts and motor rickshaws. Each two- or three-story building had a shop on the ground level that sold one kind of product—millstones or dog leashes or motorcycle helmets. I had to assume that an occasional customer bought these objects, but most of the shopkeepers sat on the sidewalks, drinking tea and gossiping with their friends. They lived in the Kingdom of Sitting Around.
My driver dropped me off at a sprawling three-story mansion that had been converted into a luxury hotel. I had to sit in front of an air conditioner in my room for a half hour until I felt like opening a second manila envelope. Transmotion Ltd. told me to leave the hotel at 3 p.m., find an auto rickshaw, and ask the driver to take me to the Adalaj Stepwell north of the city. An enclosed brochure said that the well was a historical ruin, a multilevel sanctuary built for pilgrims in 1500.
The heat made my Shell feel like it was melting away. After changing money at the hotel, I found an auto rickshaw and sat behind the driver as he steered through the crowded city. The smells were very strong in India and I saw these as different shades of red and orange in my mind. Nobody was wearing G-MID eyeglasses and I didn’t see any surveillance cameras. A young mother in a faded sari dragged a small boy down the sidewalk. Two soldiers wearing green camouflage uniforms chatted with friends as a mechanic repaired a motorcycle. The rickshaw motor made a grinding sound like a broken lawn mower and everyone riding or driving any kind of vehicle was constantly beeping their horn.
After twenty minutes of driving, we left the main road and entered a neighborhood of small brick homes with sheet-metal roofs and cows wandering through the streets. I thought about asking the driver to
return to my hotel, but he suddenly turned a corner and stopped. Some shacks made out of packing containers were on one side of the street and they faced a rectangular gray stone ruin about the size of a basketball court. The stepwell resembled a stone plaza with four square openings that allowed sunlight to illuminate what was underground.
No one was waiting for me, and I had no idea what I was supposed to do. Although I was carrying a phone, my Shadow couldn’t help me in this situation. I paid the driver, climbed out of the rickshaw, and wandered across the street to the low chain-link fence surrounding the ruin. There were no guards or ticket booths. No instructions of any kind. Trying to avoid the blaring noise of the sun, I passed through a shattered gate and encountered an old man with a twig broom. I stopped and waited for instructions, but he shrugged and waved me forward.
Sandstone stairs led downward into the well. It had a simple construction. Each stone floor was held up by rows of white stone columns. The columns were like trees with intricately carved scrolls and filigree at the top. I followed the stairs down to the second level, descended to the third level, and then stopped. When I turned around and looked up the staircase I understood the well’s true nature. The builders had started on the surface and then built downward. This was a reverse building, a negative integer; instead of a tower that bragged and shouted at the sky, this creation burrowed into the earth.
My shoes made scuffling sounds as I followed the staircase down to the fourth level. It was cool and quiet at the base of the well, and my Spark felt restful. At the fifth and final level, I stopped and looked up. I was standing on the ground floor of what looked like a small rotunda with a white dome ceiling. Concentric circles of carved stone rings led upward to the surface, and there was a round opening at the top to let in sunlight.
I realized, almost without thinking, that this dry, abandoned well was a physical display of my Transformation. Since the accident, I had followed a stairway downward into darkness with only a small disk of sunlight to guide my journey. Now that light was directly above me and I could blot out its power with the palm of my hand.
“Mr. Underwood! Is that you?”
Looking up the staircase I saw a young Indian man on the second level, framed by the stone columns. “Yes …”
“I apologize for being late, sir. I’m your driver. I’m supposed to take you to a meeting in Gandhinagar.”
“Good. Let’s go.” Returning to the surface, I crossed the dusty road and climbed into the air-conditioned comfort of another Ambassador.
Gandhinagar turned out to be the capital of Gujarat Province. The driver explained that it was a planned city divided into thirty sectors. All the streets were wide and clean and lined with trees. Each government ministry had a large office building with a park surrounding it. There were schools and shopping malls with brightly colored billboards written in both English and Hindi.
Our car glided past an algae-filled river and turned into a driveway that led to a tall, round office building that resembled a stack of poker chips. A large sign announced that we had reached the headquarters of the Pradhani Group. Security guards with assault rifles stood at the entrance to the building, and they spoke Hindi to my driver. One of the guards escorted me into an atrium filled with tropical plants, then motioned for me to step into an elevator. He swiped his key card past a security sensor, punched the button for the twelfth floor, and nodded good-bye.
When the elevator door opened, I stepped out into a reception area where a young Indian woman wearing a green sari and round, horn-rimmed eyeglasses was waiting for my arrival. She stood up immediately and smiled.
“Mr. Underwood?”
“That’s correct.”
“Welcome to the Pradhani Group. I’m Miss Mehta, and I want to thank you for traveling such a long way to meet our president.”
I wasn’t sure about the right response, so I stayed silent. Miss Mehta’s smile was frozen on her face for a few seconds, and then disappeared. “Was your hotel room satisfactory in New Delhi?”
“Yes.”
“And here? In Ahmedabad? Are there any problems?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Very good.” Miss Mehta picked up the telephone headset and dialed a three-digit number. “He’s here,” she said in English and waited until someone gave her a command.
“Mr. Pradhani will see you now.”
She opened a door and I followed her down a windowless hallway where the air was cool and dry. Miss Mehta stopped when we reached a steel door with a CCTV camera mounted above the frame. She pushed a wall switch and waited with her hands straight down at the sides. When the door lock clicked open my escort motioned for me to enter. I stepped into the room alone and the door shut behind me.
I was standing in a private office with gauzy white curtains covering the windows. The curtains filtered and softened the shrill sunlight I had encountered outside the stepwell. A black steel dining room table with matching chairs was on my right. A green suede couch was on the other side of the room next to a glass coffee table.
But the furniture was only background scenery to the occupant of the room: an Indian man in his sixties sitting behind a massive desk. Rajat Pradhani wore white linen pants and a long-sleeved white linen shirt that resembled pajamas. Unlike everyone else I had met in India, he was large and heavy. His saggy face resembled a blob of yellowish cookie dough with two brown raisins for eyes.
I took a few steps forward and stood like a servant in front of the desk. Mr. Pradhani stared at me for a minute or so, and then shook his head. “I was expecting someone bigger.”
Lorcan Tate would have been angered by Mr. Pradhani’s comment. But I felt nothing. No response.
“You’re not frightening at all,” Mr. Pradhani said. “There’s nothing intimidating about your appearance. I don’t wish to be impolite, but you have a bad haircut and cheap shoes.” A slight smile appeared on his lips. “You resemble a lower-level employee from one of our American subsidiaries.”
No response.
“Can you talk, Mr. Underwood? That is your name? Correct?”
“What would you like me to say?”
“Answer my questions, immediately. No hesitations. What is your true nationality?”
“American.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-five.”
“And how many people have you killed?”
My Spark was overwhelmed with a cold, watery mixture of thought. I wasn’t angered by the question, but I knew that it was inappropriate. I shared the present moment with this Human Unit:
But as far as I knew, my previous assignments had no connection to his past life.
“Speak up! I want a number!”
“I work for the Special Services Section of the BDG bank, Mr. Pradhani. Contact my supervisor if you need to know more about me.”
“But I’m asking you now. It’s necessary information. If I hire a Dalit to clean my toilet, I want to know if he’s done it before.”
No response. I kept my eyes focused on a lighting sconce.
“Answer the question!” Mr. Pradhani yanked open a drawer and took out a silver-plated revolver. He stood up with effort and lurched around the desk. “My family has controlled this province since independence. The police, the judges, and the members of Parliament are our employees.”
Mr. Pradhani’s throat made a rasping sound as he raised the revolver and pointed it at my head. “No one at your hotel knows where you went. A rickshaw driver took you to the stepwell and left you there. There is no connection between yourself and my family. That means I can kill you right now and there will be no consequences. My employees will wrap up your body and toss it into a dung pit. After a few phone calls, there will be no proof that you even arrived in this city. You will not exist. You have never existed.”
I stared at the end of the revolver barrel and felt no emotion at all. My only wish was that all the doctors and psychologists who had examined me could be in the room so that the
y could witness one final proof of my deadness. And what would happen when Mr. Pradhani pulled the trigger?
My Shell would be broken.
It would dissolve into fragments. While my Spark floated free.
“I’m speaking to you!” Mr. Pradhani shouted. “Are you so stupid that you don’t realize you’re about to die?”
“Perhaps I should move over to the table.”
He waved his gun. “What are you talking about?”
“If you shoot me here, my blood might stain the rug. There’s no rug over by the dining table—so it’s a more logical location.”
The expression on Mr. Pradhani’s face changed several times, but I couldn’t understand their meanings. I wondered what he would say if I took out my phone and checked my database of emotions.
Pradhani laughed and lowered the gun. “Miss Holquist said that you were cold, but I didn’t quite believe her. Almost every human being shows emotion when they face death. You’re the first person I’ve ever met who has really slain that tiger. If you were Indian, you could become a Sadu … a holy man.”
Pradhani returned to the desk, put down his gun, and picked up the phone. “Tea,” he said, and then waddled over to the couch. “Sit over there,” he said, motioning to an easy chair. “Sit down and we’ll have a real conversation.”
I sat down on the chair while Pradhani ripped the gold-foil wrapper off a square of chocolate and popped it into his mouth. “Do you have the flash drive with the stolen information?”
I took the flash drive out of my shirt pocket and placed it on the coffee table. Mr. Pradhani picked up the data-storage device and studied it carefully. For a moment, I thought he might swallow it with the chocolate. “I don’t know what files are on here, but I’m sure that they could cause a great deal of trouble. This betrayal is a direct attack on our family.”