“With pleasure,” said the vehicle, smoothly switching to English. Hurry meant that the cart would actively pay the occupants of other vehicles on the road to prioritize Joel2’s route above theirs. It worked like an auction system, in which everyone could bid on getting to their destination as soon as they wanted. It could become incredibly expensive, but Joel2 no longer cared much about money. The bastards who had actually killed him had now taken his wife. The woman who’d brought him back. He wasn’t a fighter, but he would find a way to get her out alive.
He almost fell out of his seat as the cart took off faster than he’d anticipated. While tightening his grip on the roll bar, he considered trying to locate Bill Taraval on the comms. He decided it would be a bad idea, judging by their interactions thus far. Joel2 didn’t particularly trust the man, or anyone from IT, for that matter. That meant he also couldn’t trust the cops, since all of them were owned by the corporations.
Thus, my synthesized double found himself in a golf cart wending its way through the maze of tiny mountain roads in Santa Elena, barreling toward an unknown destination. Joel2 had many questions and no one to whom he could pose them. The clouds obscured the Sun, the wind picked up, and the temperature seemed to fall off” a cliff. His body began inadvertently shivering from the cold of the journey, and from fear of what he’d find upon arrival. But there was no turning back. He had to reach Sylvia.
21 I was born in the post-war era, as I imagine a lot of folks have said throughout different periods, but I’ve seen a lot of historical streams. Enough to know that the Last War, known as Yawm al-Qiy?mah in the Levant, was started by people who believed that building a Third Temple in Jerusalem would trigger the revelatory chain of the appearance of an Antichrist, a political leader of a transnational alliance who would secure a peace treaty among all nations. This Antichrist would then use the temple as a venue for proclaiming himself as God and the long-awaited Messiah, demanding worship from humanity. And so, the masterminds of the Last War sanctioned a religious sect known as the Third Temple Architects to manifest their beliefs into reality. At the cost of so many innocent lives, they saw to the destruction of the Al-Aqsa Mosque and the building of the Third Temple on its site. The fools believed that resurrection would happen within their lifetime, that they could somehow accelerate or play a part in the apocalypse. In many ways their war led to today’s enduring peace, the downfall of nation-states, and the rise of corporate rule by the people for the people, and the unification of the three religions. So some good came of it, I suppose. The Third Temple Architects would never enjoy the fruits of their labor, though—they were all rewarded with public executions.
DOCTOR! DOCTOR!
I AWOKE ON THE FLOOR of the LAST Agency conference room. My previous headache was now compounded by a brand-new one. Keeping my eyes closed, I felt around on my scalp until I found a tender lump where my head had struck the floor. At least someone had thought to put a pillow underneath my skull as I slept.
I sat up, groaning as most of my muscles filed complaints with my brain. Ifrit turned to me from her spot at the table, her gentle, concerned, blue-gray eyes putting me a bit at ease. “What happened?”
She spoke softly, as if I had a hangover. It sure felt like I did. “You fainted.”
“How long was I out?”
“About eight hours. For you, it is tomorrow. Around five a.m. on Tuesday, July fourth. We gave you a little sedative to make you sleep.” She came over to help me up.
A little sedative? Feels like a people-mover landed on my head. “I don’t need sleep; I need to get my comms working and talk to my wife.”
Ifrit nodded, handing me a cup of clear liquid.
I sipped from the cup, then spit the liquid out in disgust. “Ack! That’s not water.”
“Drink, drink! You need it.”
“More drugs?” I asked. Still, I’d do anything to make the headache go away. I took another tentative sip. “This tastes like ass juice.”
“It is medicine. It will make you feel better. You are hurt and dehydrated.”
“Ugh,” I said, but painfully gulped the swill down and handed the empty cup back to her. “That shit is more metal than water, you know?”
Ifrit smiled. “Good boy. Now here, eat some bread; it will help settle your stomach.” She handed me a couple of pieces of rye bread.
My mouth already tasted like tinfoil from the nano juice. Chewing on the rye bread made me feel like I had a mixture of toxic cement in my mouth, but since my body was starting to feel better, I did as I was told.
After I’d consumed both slices of bread, Ifrit handed me a glass of water, which I chugged instantly and handed back to her.
“More please.”
She walked over to the printer to refill my glass. My head had started to clear up, making room for the millions of questions emerging from beneath the fog. “So where is everyone?” I said.
“As it is still early, Moti and Zaki are in their homes, but I have commed them. They will be here soon. Moti, he believes your story. This is very important. He is usually right about people.”
Just then the wall parted and Moti walked in, knotting a new tie around his neck. He looked very serious, but thus far he’d always looked serious. Zaki followed behind him, the antique clipboard and pencil in hand.
“Where is Sylvia?” I demanded.
Moti leisurely sat across from me and tsk-tsked. “Yoel, you have stepped into something much bigger than yourself. We are Levantine Intelligence. We are posted here to monitor International Transport.” He grabbed a cigarette and lit it. “My superiors are very interested in your situation.”
“So you’ll help me?”
“Right now we are monitoring the situation in Costa Rica.”
“You mean, the other me? So they’re okay?”
“For now. But, Yoel, you must start coming to terms that it is you who are the other him.” He took a pull off his cigarette. “Right now keeping both of you alive is a strategic advantage for us.”
“You make it sound like I’m a pawn,” I said.
“Don’t be so dramatic, Yoel. You are not a pawn.” He allowed himself a razor-thin smile. “More like a bishop. Yes. There are only two of you, moving diagonally.” He seemed pleased with his simile.
“So that’s your plan? To monitor the situation?” I asked, making sure to imply what I thought of his tactics.
“Yes,” he said, refusing to take the bait.
“Okay. You stay here and monitor. I’m gonna go and make sure my wife is safe.” I stood up to show him I was serious. Zaki took a step forward.
Moti regarded his cigarette. “That I would not recommend. The first step outside of this office will probably be your last. They will kill you, Yoel, and nobody will know or care. A small bite from an unseen nano, and you are out like a light. Then, a man you never saw coming drags you into a drone. He straps you into one of their chairs, and you disappear.”
“What about Sylvia? And him? If IT is willing to murder people to cover this up, then they’re both in danger. At least let’s call the cops.”
“They own the police, Yoel. You know this. And you are not a warrior.” He stared at me, his dark eyes betraying no emotion. “You should be a Job, not an Aher.”
“Job? Aher? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Café?” he asked me.