The Shibboleth (26 page)

The elevator descent doesn't take as long as the one in my bunker. Five minutes, maybe. Since I've come out of the dark, I have trouble telling time. My mind races.

When the doors open, a bland office environment is revealed. Tile floor, hung ceiling. Many vents pushing conditioned air.

We walk down hallways, past innumerable doors, each one with a key card lock. Some with what looks like fingerprint bioscanners. No pictures. It's an office building, pretty much. I can't help but note the lack of Helmholtz fields. I could jerk Ruark around, if I wanted to. And do something about the dark, silent figure of Negata.

“Here we are,” Ruark says, stopping at a door labeled 142a. Looking down the hall, I see a door labeled 142b.

Ruark punches a new series of numbers into a keypad. The door clicks, and she pulls it open. Negata waits and watches from fifteen paces away. He keeps his distance, yet during our walk, I felt like he was tethered to me at all times. I might not be able to sense him in the ether, but in physical space, he's got my attention.

“Okay, kid.
Entre vous
.”

“Uh, you not coming?”

She grins at me, and it does not-so-nice things to her face. “It's all you. Have fun.”

It's dimly lit, the room, and something about that bothers me. It's like they're reminding me they can take the light away, if they want to. It makes me nervous.

The room's bare. It's got the same antiseptic smell as a hospital, minus the smeared feces and urine splatter. And screaming psychopaths, though my stint at Tulaville Psych might be coloring my memory. There's something utterly impersonal and dehumanizing about the space, but it's hard to pinpoint what. There's a plastic lawn chair and a large mirror covering half a wall. Beside the mirror stands a door, no handle. Below the mirror is a matte-black box bolted to the wall—a Helmholtz field generator. A large plasma screen is mounted on the wall to the left of the mirror opposite the door I entered. A business-card-sized camera sits perched above it. Around the room, in all the corners, I notice other cameras. And some sort of sensor. Heat maybe. Or infrared.

I turn back to the door I entered through and, of course, no knob.

A tinny small voice says, “Mr. Cannon, please direct your attention to the screen.” There's a small hiss following the words, and I quickly come to the conclusion that somewhere there's someone peering at me through these cameras and breathing into a microphone. Just like in my other hole.

I don't like this one bit. So I pick up the chair and chuck it at the mirror. It bounces off, skitters across the floor.

The hidden speakers squelch, and the voice—not any voice I recognize—says, “Hardly original, Mr. Cannon. Please take a seat and direct your attention at the screen.”

“Had to try,” I say, not expecting an answer.

“Obviously. There's a reason why the chair is plastic. This isn't our first rodeo,” the voice responds. It's not Ruark. This person sounds young, a woman, maybe, or a man with a decidedly tenor voice. It's weird, but I like the person behind the speaker and the cameras, despite everything. There's a spark of humanity there, and not the shitty arsonist spark either.

The screen flickers to life, showing another room like this one. In the room on the screen, there's another plastic chair. And the plastic chair holds another boy, maybe a little older than me, judging by the scraggly fuzz darkening his chin. He's got a fauxhawk and earrings, some tattoos on his arms.

In the corner of the screen, in the lower third, read the words,
142b - Cameron, Reese - CN: The Liar.

“Mr. Cameron, you have your instructions. Please begin.”

Cameron—
The Liar?
—looks at the ceiling as if trying to discern where the voice is coming from, an annoyed expression on his face.

“Begin, please, Mr. Cameron.”

Cameron looks at the screen. It's like he's looking at me, but not quite. The camera isn't squarely in his field of view. He looks at the paper, looks back at me.

“You owe me twenty dollars,” he says, looking into the camera.

I check my wallet, just in case. It's still there.

After a moment of silence, the voice says, “Reading complete. Proceed to the next example.”

“You've got lung cancer and only have a month to live.”

Nah, that's total bullshit. If Moms hasn't gotten lung cancer yet, I sure as hell don't have it.

Again, silence. “Reading complete. Next example.”

“Jack Graves is dead.”

Huh? Okay, this is getting too weird. They're fucking with me now. And I don't like being fucked with.

“Reading complete, next example.”

“Your hair is on fire.”

I snort. Yeah, right.

“Reading complete. We will proceed to the next phase of the test.”

I don't know what's going on here, but something is definitely weird.

The ether thrums, shivers. The Helmholtz has been triggered.

“Mr. Cameron, please proceed.”

Cameron looks at the paper and says, “Hey, man, you owe me twenty dollars.”

Nothing.

He runs through the same statements again. After each, the
voice says, “Reading complete. Proceed.”

After he tells me my hair is on fire, the thrumming increases, rising to an uncomfortable level. At the voice's prodding, Cameron runs through the bizarre statements once more.

When he's finished, the voice says, “Mr. Cameron, section one of the test is complete. Please join Mr. Cannon in the other room.” A buzzing sounds, then a click. The door next to the mirror swings slowly open. On the screen, Cameron stands, still holding the piece of paper.

“He crazy or something?”

“Hey, I can hear you, dude,” I say.

He grins, walks into the room. “Listen, man. They're gonna have me say some more stuff, but I promise I won't make you do anything you don't—”

“Mr. Cameron, please refrain from speaking, immediately,” the voice says, but it's different now. Another person. Gruffer.

Ruark.

Cameron turns and pops the bird at the nearest camera. Turning back to me, he sticks out his hand to shake, and I take it. “Name's Reese. They call me The Liar. I hate that damned name.”

“What does it—”

“Mr. Cameron, start with phase two, immediately.”

He looks at me apologetically, shrugging. “You'll see.”

“Mr. Cameron, please start phase two, immediately.”

“Okay!” He glances around as if looking for a fight, faux-hawk bristling, the paper balled in a fist. He uncrumples it, spreads it in front of his face with two hands. The ether is still and placid.

Cameron looks at me closely and says, “Sorry about this, man, but you owe me twenty dollars.”

I reach for my wallet, because I like this guy and I don't want to welsh on him. I can't remember how I borrowed the twenty, but now that he's asking for it and I'm flush, no reason not to pay him back. I whip out the wallet, peel off a twenty, and hand it to him. He smiles, takes it, puts it in his pocket.

“Reading complete. Proceed, Mr. Cameron.”

Cameron nods, bows his head, thinking. Then looks to the ceiling again. “Really? I have to do this?”

“Proceed, Mr. Cameron.”

“Goddamn you. Goddamn you to hell,” he says. His jaw is locked, and his face takes a fierce expression, rapacious, yet full of sorrow. “I'm so sorry for this. They have my parents.” He stops, breathing deep, then looks at me. “You've got lung cancer and only have a month to live.”

At first the words don't register, but what he says settles in, the horrible truth of it. I touch my chest, staggering back. I can feel the tumors blossoming in my chest like black flowers in the light of some cancerous sun. My mind races back to every cough, every clearing of my throat in the last six months. How could I have not seen it?

I'm going to die. We're all going to die, but I'm going to die soon. In a month. Or less.

Immediately, I think of Vig, the little dude, left to fend for himself. Of Moms drowning herself in a sea of alcohol, broken beyond repair.

I think of Jack, vulnerable yet strong. Booth, kind and full of concern. Jerry, full of wisdom and mirth. I'll never see them again. I'll never be normal. I'll never have a real life, but I guess that was already my fate, and the realization of that hurts more than the harsh reality of my oncoming death. It's the shame and
embarrassment I feel, fooling myself that I could somehow cobble together a normal life for myself. God, I'm such a pathetic idiot.

My face streaming, I turn away, toward the far wall, so that Cameron can't see my stunned grief. I can feel coughs building in my chest, like bubbles rising. I can't stop them. They tear at my throat, the coughs, and I can feel bits of my lungs sloughing off and traveling up my windpipe.

It's hard to breathe.

The disembodied voice and Cameron remain quiet, leaving me to my coughing and sobbing and heartache, huddling away from the bland room. I'm there a long time, lost in my own private apocalypse.

“Can we stop this?” Cameron cries. His voice sounds as distressed as my own. “Can we stop this bullshit?”

The voice says, “Reading complete.” Not Ruark anymore. It's thick, the voice, as if choking back some emotion. “Proceed.”

I can't even turn to look at him, but I hear paper being uncrumpled. I hear his breathing. He says, “Is this necessary? Is it?”

“Proceed, Mr. Cameron.”

“No. Let him get up. What's his name? Steve?”

“Mr. Cameron, proceed with the testing. Immediately.”

“No, damn you. Give him a second.” There's a long silence, and then he says, “Steve, hey, listen, you're not dying. You've been cured, okay? You're going to live.”

You can't come out from something like that in a second. My body reacts to this news—there's been a horrible mistake, and I'm going to be all right—but I'm still a wreck. The sobs and coughs have ripped my chest to shreds, it feels like. But there's a small burning ember of hope now.

“Mr. Cameron, proceed.”

“Can I say this? Can I say it? You are all evil. You hear me?”

The voice isn't so sure now when it comes through the speakers. It wavers a little. “Please proceed, Mr. Cameron.”

“They've got you too, don't they? They've got you.
I can hear it in your voice! They've got you!
”

“Please—” It's almost weeping now, the voice. “Proceed, Mr. Cameron.”

The microphone squelches once. A voice returns. “Mr. Cameron, if you do not proceed, Mr. Negata will escort you from the room. You will fail the test.” Ruark again. They're fighting over the microphone, it seems.

“I've passed your shitty test already!”

“There are always more tests, Mr. Cameron,” Ruark says, her voice smug. “No position or place is assured in the Society.”

Who is being tested here? Me or him?

That thought shocks me out of my self-pity for a moment. I always live at the center of all worlds. That's just my due.

“Proceed.”

Another long silence. Then Cameron says, “Jack Graves is dead.”

The world is ending. We spent so much of our times at odds, Jack and I, but I love him and he's gone now and I'll never get a chance to tell him so. Something here is so wrong, it affects me on a physical level. My heart races; my blood pounds and surges in my temples.

Something here is wrong.

“Reading complete. Proceed, Mr. Cameron.”

“Really? This one?” Cameron says. “It's just stupid.”

“Proceed,” the voice says, implacable.

“Your hair is on fire.”

I twist and roll, frantic to extinguish the flames. I can't feel the pain yet, but my body reacts anyway. When you cut your finger to the bone, it takes a while for the body to report. These flames pouring from my head—each person like a match head, unlit, dormant—will at any moment begin to sear my flesh, melt my skin from my skull. I drop to the ground and slap at my cranium, furiously.

Yet it doesn't burn. How can my hair be aflame yet my skin not burn?

Something is not right here.

I stop thrashing. There's a moment when I wait for the searing heat to attack me, ripping across my head and flesh, but it doesn't come.

I stand, look at Cameron.

“Yeah, the last one was a doozy.”

Ruark's voice says, “Mr. Cameron, repeat the last example, please.”

He looks at the ceiling. “Can't. The circuit's been tripped, can't you see?”

“Mr. Cameron, repeat the last example. Immediately.”

“Fine,” he says, and looks at me. “Dude, so sorry about all of this. You ready?”

“What just happened?” I ask, though I'm getting an idea.

“You tell a lie too big, and it breaks the trust. Flips the switch. If the lie contradicts what their senses tell them—”