“You are making a big mistake. Both of you. I did not start this. I did not create teleportation technology. I did not create the bomb Joan Anglicus brought through that TC. I did not create Honeycomb.” He shifted his gaze to Joel2. “I did not make your wife pull you down from an incomplete backup. The world is a dark place, Joel,” he said, giving us both prolonged looks. “You people have allowed corporations like International Transport to grow like weeds. I am just a gardener here to prune them. You think you are a piece on my board, Yoel? You are leverage. Your wife, she is William Taraval’s pawn. She—Aaah!” Moti screamed as Joel2 shocked him in the ribs with the defibrillator.
“What the fuck, man?” I chastised Joel2. “A shot like that could kill the guy. Don’t fucking forget he’s the one guy who can help us find Sylvia.”
Joel2 silently glared at me, throwing the defibrillator onto the floor with a look of disgust on his face.
And that’s when it hit me. Of course I understood that Joel2 felt betrayed by Sylvia. For lying to him about Honeycomb, for leaving him to fend for himself in Costa Rica. I wondered in that moment what I’d wondered since I’d met him, and what I wonder still: Was he angry because, deep down, he thought I was the real Joel and he was just a printed copy? A knockoff of the original? Because what Moti said was true. None of the events that had unfolded would have transpired had she not broken every oath she’d taken both as a scientist and wife. Till death do us part. It’s a definitive statement. There’s no question mark at the end. Joel2 nailed Moti with the defibrillator because Moti was right. He wanted Moti to hurt with the same pain of truth that Moti had unleashed upon him.
“Shock me all you want,” Moti said, wincing in pain. “It won’t change the facts: the world is filled with dangerous technology. You want one company that can hold all of us, copy us, duplicate us, move us anywhere they want at will? No. So in this dark world, sometimes good men have to do, well, gray things to nudge us back toward the light.”
A random bit of trivia popped into my mind. Marguerite Perey discovered francium in the mid-twentieth century and eventually died of cancer related to her research. Could she be blamed for the element’s use as a quantum trigger for a terrorist bomb nearly five hundred years after her death? Of course not. But that’s not what’s on the table here. Joel2’s not mad at Sylvia for her research; he’s angry with her for her actions.
Joel2 pressed on the scorch mark the defibrillator had left on Moti’s suit. “Where’s. Sylvia?”
Other me is scaring me. If he’s this pissed, why does he even want to find Sylvia? Does he want to confront—or worse—hurt her? Or does he want her to choose one of us? To decide once and for all, which is the real Joel, her husband? And do I want to hear what she has to say?
The spy grunted but refused to answer. Joel2 pressed harder.
“Calm down,” I said to Joel2. “We’re not like them.”
Am I just fooling myself, though? Telling myself these things to help me cling to the notion that I’m the real me?
“Maybe we should be,” Joel2 said defensively. But he took his hand off Moti and sat back, annoyed at me.
The “travel agent” rolled his neck as if shrugging off the pain. “Finding your wife was exactly what I was working on when you interrupted my coffee.”
Suddenly the car eased to a stop. I scrambled to scoop up the defibrillator off the floor as the back door opened and Zaki nonchalantly got in and sat next to me. He was breathing a little heavily but otherwise looked calm.
What the fuck?
Zaki ignored the defibrillator mere inches from his nose and nodded to Moti.
“Car, you may continue on your route now,” said Moti. Then, to Zaki: “Status report?”
Zaki adjusted his dark-gray raincoat. His hand nervously reached into the pocket I knew contained the cigarette with which he liked to fidget. “Taraval and Mrs. Byram have gone off the grid.”
HALCYON
THE THICK WROUGHT-IRON GATE was enveloped by the golden amber hue of the setting Sun and crowned by an iridescent rainbow—the side effect of billions of mosquitoes pissing at once. New York’s magic hour was renowned for its beauty, so long as one didn’t dwell too much on how it was achieved.
Taraval gestured at the view beyond the gate. “Appropriate for our send-off, wouldn’t you say? Today will be the culmination of our life’s work, Sylvia. The day that Honeycomb will be recognized as humanity’s ultimate achievement!”
In that moment she knew he had gone beyond the pale of lunacy. She wondered whether he had always been this nuts and she had refused to see it, or whether his self-experimentation in Honeycomb had changed him.
Either way, Taraval’s ranting showed no sign of abatement. Sylvia guessed that he had progressed past trying to convince her, and was now trying to sell himself on whatever plan he had improvised for both of their futures.
Her boss bent to fiddle with the complex locks on the gate—a blend of physical and digital security controls designed to keep tunnel moles and curious urban explorers from whatever lay on the other side.
“How many great inventions does our species have left in it?” he asked. “How many could be classified as the definitive tools of humanity? The wheel? The gun? The computer? Today, Sylvia, Honeycomb shall eclipse them all.”
Sylvia was at her wit’s end. She felt betrayed not only by her mentor, but also by her employer, by science, by life. “Honeycomb is not a tool, Bill. It’s a mistake,” she said evenly.
Ignoring her, Taraval continued, “Forget space travel. Right here on Earth: What if we routinely mapped everyone? An accident happens and someone you love is lost. But thanks to us, you have real life insurance! Your loved one comes back to you—good as new—courtesy of International Transport and Honeycomb. We were thinking like scientists, not actuaries. I say we channel Corina’s spirit, Sylvia. Create a world where death is not the end.”
She stepped forward, trying to appeal to him. There had to be a remnant of her old mentor in there somewhere. “Bill, can’t you see we went too far? When you told me Joel was still in New York, it hit me: I had no idea which of my two husbands was real. I still don’t. We aren’t ready for this technology! No one should be in the business of selling resurrection.”
“And what do you think our forefathers would say of the current state of medical technology, Sylvia?” His glare looked as though it might singe her with its intensity. “Life everlasting is already possible, but at a cost. We’ve genetically engineered near-immortality, yet we don’t seek designs on true immortality. We do not seek to defeat death, Sylvia; we merely choose the time and place of our dying. Our aspirations are too small.”
Sylvia shook her head. “And when will it be enough, Bill? Say you do conquer death—what then? At some point, there has to be a limit. Some lines are there for a reason.”
“You disappoint me. Had all scientists thought as you do, we would still think the Sun revolves around Earth.” Taraval grunted as he turned an old-fashioned hand crank. An antique touch screen emerged from the wall beside them. “For you see, when is the answer, not the question. You and I—we are in the wrong when.” Taraval placed his palm against the screen and the gate began to open, slowly scraping against the outside wall.
Taraval grinned, pleased with himself. “Let us soldier on, Sylvia.” He gently nudged her forward. “The future awaits.”