I turned to see Moti, nattily dressed as always, a cryptic smile on his face.
“It was interesting,” he continued. “A shape that could be read in two different ways.”
Shortly before the paramedics showed up last night, Moti and his team had made themselves scarce. Pema briefed us on what to say and what not to say, assuring us that International Transport would handle damage control. Neither Sylvia nor I had mentioned anyone else’s presence at the shipping yard. Our official story was that Taraval had abducted Sylvia, and his disappearance was the result of a deranged work-related attempt at murder-suicide. IT had already set up Taraval as the fall guy; now they were executing on that plan. The news feeds all talked about the actions of a scientist who went crazy and killed a crane conductor. Our names were not mentioned, only that “Two innocent bystanders were also injured, but are expected to make a full recovery.”
Moti’s tone now was nonchalant, but I knew he was goading me to ask for more detail. Perhaps trying to lighten the mood. I didn’t take the bait.
As we walked back to my wife’s room, the Levantine spy verified what I intrinsically knew—what Sylvia had realized the moment it had happened: Joel2 was gone. They couldn’t find him or Taraval in the glacier. They’d keep trying, but it wasn’t looking good.
I couldn’t stop myself from continuously mulling over Joel2’s last action. He didn’t have to sacrifice himself. Moti had things under control. But, of course, there had been no way to know that.
Still, why had he held on to the grenade while tackling Taraval? Why not throw it at him? Did he think that taking out Taraval that way would stop the portal nanos from clearing everyone else? Or was he already resigned to his end, answering the siren’s call of the glacier? Perhaps he knew there was no future for him and Sylvia, that the weight of what she’d done would always be heavier on his soul than mine. Perhaps he saw his sacrifice as the best and only way to ensure her happiness.
One thing I knew for sure, I still had a million questions. But for once, I didn’t need to know all the answers. Now I just wanted to appreciate what I had, and what I’d almost lost. I felt as though I’d lived two lifetimes in the last thirty-six hours.
We entered my wife’s room. She lay on the blue-and-white bed, staring bleakly out the window at the New York skyline. The Sun managed to shine brightly through the hazy atmosphere. The clouds around it looked like perfectly sculpted cotton balls against the bluish-gray sky. Yet, Sylvia’s expression was bleak. The absence of her leg under the bedsheet reminded me of a missing puzzle piece.
“IT is on the way to debrief you,” Moti told us. “I cannot be here when they arrive. So this must be good-bye.”
I nodded. Sylvia continued staring out the window.
“William Taraval knew he was finished, but he still tried to take us all out,” Moti added, despite her disinclination to listen. Maybe he wanted to make himself feel better. “Your husbands acted bravely. Sometimes stupidly, too. But they saved you. I suggest both of you look forward, not backward.”
“The fail-safe,” Sylvia said softly. Her voice was still hoarse from the events of the past two days. “Bill told me not to worry about his self-experimentation in Honeycomb. He said he’d been testing it for six months with no recorded adverse effects. And he said he had a fail-safe in case something went wrong.”
“Interesting,” Moti said, reaching for the pack of TIME cigarettes I knew was in his pocket. “What is this fail-safe?” he asked, knocking the pack against the palm of his hand.
“I—” She hesitated, looking at me, her face stricken. I squeezed her hand in mine, encouraging her to go on. “In my research, there would be a programmatic mechanism for waking up astronauts when they arrived at their destination. With Honeycomb, it was the same. You could theoretically bring anyone back if you knew where to look and what to look for.”
“In that case, I’m afraid the matter is hopeless,” Moti said, lighting up his tightly packed cigarette in defiance of the NO SMOKING signs plastered all around the hospital. “As soon as that grenade went off, IT and the Levant were in a race to find and recover William Taraval.”
But not Joel2?
He continued, unaware of, or perhaps indifferent to, my thoughts, “We knew where to look and what we were looking for, but there was nothing.” He paused to draw a puff from his cigarette. “They are gone. I am sure of it.”
“So that’s it?” I asked him.
Moti nodded. “That’s it,” he said. Sylvia turned her face away again.
“I must go,” he stated, heading back to the door of Sylvia’s room. “You know, when this all settles down, you two should take another vacation.”
Moti took another puff, the end of his cigarette glowing red. “If you ask this travel agent,” he said, smiling, a single eyebrow raised, “I recommend Florence. Easy to get to without teleportation. Go see the Mona Lisa there, at the Uffizi. She will help you.” He turned halfway in the doorway, meeting my eye with the corner of his as he took one last drag. “Good-bye, Joel.”
Then he left us in a cloud of smoke.
AD FINEM
For our transgressions have been multiplied before Thee, and our sins have testified against us; for our transgressions are with us, and our iniquities—we have known them.
—Isaiah 59:12
JUST A FEW FINAL HOUSEKEEPING ITEMS I need to get down before ending this transcription.
For seven days, Sylvia stayed in the hospital. She refused all replacement legs, mechanical or printed, choosing to regard her missing limb as a reminder of the guilt, anguish, and self-loathing she felt. After a week, she finally consented to accept a simple jointed titanium prosthesis. Whether she gave in to my gentle badgering or didn’t want to go through life in a wheelchair, I don’t know. I do know our turn on the ride is over. I think it’s safe to say we’re both ready to get off.
God gave Adam and Eve unfettered access to the Garden of Eden. “Don’t eat the fruit of these two trees,” he commanded. We know how that turned out. Some blame Eve; some blame Adam. Some blame the snake. The salter blames the coder: God. Why make a game with spaces on which players aren’t allowed to land?