Read Online City of Truth by James Morrow - Free Book Online
Authors: James Morrow
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, Short Stories (Single Author), Sci-Fi Short, Honesty - Fiction, Honesty, Truthfulness and Falsehood, Truthfulness and Falsehood - Fiction
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— "like that ."
"Unfortunately, it's not up to us," said Martina. "You're going to need some luck." She reached into her madras bag and took out, of all things, a horseshoe. She opened the drawer in my nightstand and dropped it in, thud . "Horses have six legs," she said, matter-of-factly.
I gritted my teeth. "Good luck charms are lies," I countered.
"Perhaps," said Martina.
"I understand you wish to make a phone call," rumbled Franz. "Speaking on behalf of Internal Security, I must tell you we're delighted to grant your request." Franz and Martina helped me to my feet, inch by painful inch. I'd never realized I owned so many vulnerable muscles, so many assaultable bones. At last I stood, the cold floor nipping at my bare feet, my baggy and absurdly short hospital gown brushing my rump.
The Center for Creative Wellness was a modest affair. A dozen paces down a hall hung with photographs of ecstatic children, a dozen more across a lobby loaded with Monet's paintings of water lillies, and suddenly we were moving through the main entrance and into a small private park. Graffiti coated the smooth brick walls: JESUS LOVES YOU ... EVERYTHING IS BEAUTIFUL IN ITS OWN WAY ... TODAY IS THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF YOUR LIFE. I looked up. No sun, no clouds — no sky. The whole park was covered by a concrete arch suggesting the vaulted dome of a cathedral; two enormous mercury-vapor searchlights lay suspended from the roof, technological suns.
"We're under the ground," Martina explained, noting the confusion on my face.
"We're under Veritas," she said, launching her index finger upward; her nails were a fluorescent green. "So far we've colonized only a hundred acres, but we're expanding all the time."
Compact, enclosed — and yet the park was not claustrophobic. Indeed, I had never before stood in such a soothing and airy space. It smelled of pine sap. The omnipresent birdsong boasted the exhilarating intricacy of a fugue. Butterflies representing a dozen species, each more colorful than the next, fluttered about like patches attempting to fuse themselves into a crazy quilt. A flagstone footpath sinuated amid neat little gardens planted with zinnias, gladioli, tulips, and peonies. Martina said, "We'll never grow as big as Veritas, of course. But that's not the point."
I studied the roof, its curving face crisscrossed with Veritas's innards — her concrete intestines, gushing lead veins, buzzing nerves of steel and gutta-percha. Something peculiar glided over my head.
"The point is that Satirev is here," Martina continued, "and that it works." A pig. A pig ? Yes, there it was, sailing through the air like a miniature dirigible, flapping its little cherub-wings. A machine of some kind, a child's bizarre toy? No, its squeal was disconcertingly organic.
"Pigs have wings," said Franz. His lie sent a chill through my flesh. A scrawny yellow cat sidled out from behind a forsythia bush, its hairs erect with feline anxiety. It shaped itself into an oblong of fur and shot toward the Center for Creative Wellness. An instant later, its pursuer appeared. A dog, I assumed at first. But no. Wrong shape. And that tail, long and ropelike.
The shudder began in my lower spine and expanded. A rat. A rat the size of a pregnant badger.
Chasing a cat.
"This is a very strange place," I said, staring into Martina's exotically adorned eyes. "Wouldn't you say?"
"Strangeness is relative," she replied.
"I'm bewildered," I said.
"It's not hard to make a lie, Jack. Avant-garde microbiology will give you a flying pig, an outsized rat — anything you want."
"I'm still bewildered."
"Satirev takes some getting used to," said Franz, smiling prolifically. "I'm sure you'll be able to master it. You look like a champ to me, Jack." The telephone booth sat on a knoll smothered in purple grass and five-leaf clovers. Slowly I limped through the odd flora — my body felt like a single gigantic bruise — and pushed the sliding door against the jamb.
"Unfortunately, it's not up to us," said Martina. "You're going to need some luck." She reached into her madras bag and took out, of all things, a horseshoe. She opened the drawer in my nightstand and dropped it in, thud . "Horses have six legs," she said, matter-of-factly.
I gritted my teeth. "Good luck charms are lies," I countered.
"Perhaps," said Martina.
"I understand you wish to make a phone call," rumbled Franz. "Speaking on behalf of Internal Security, I must tell you we're delighted to grant your request." Franz and Martina helped me to my feet, inch by painful inch. I'd never realized I owned so many vulnerable muscles, so many assaultable bones. At last I stood, the cold floor nipping at my bare feet, my baggy and absurdly short hospital gown brushing my rump.
The Center for Creative Wellness was a modest affair. A dozen paces down a hall hung with photographs of ecstatic children, a dozen more across a lobby loaded with Monet's paintings of water lillies, and suddenly we were moving through the main entrance and into a small private park. Graffiti coated the smooth brick walls: JESUS LOVES YOU ... EVERYTHING IS BEAUTIFUL IN ITS OWN WAY ... TODAY IS THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF YOUR LIFE. I looked up. No sun, no clouds — no sky. The whole park was covered by a concrete arch suggesting the vaulted dome of a cathedral; two enormous mercury-vapor searchlights lay suspended from the roof, technological suns.
"We're under the ground," Martina explained, noting the confusion on my face.
"We're under Veritas," she said, launching her index finger upward; her nails were a fluorescent green. "So far we've colonized only a hundred acres, but we're expanding all the time."
Compact, enclosed — and yet the park was not claustrophobic. Indeed, I had never before stood in such a soothing and airy space. It smelled of pine sap. The omnipresent birdsong boasted the exhilarating intricacy of a fugue. Butterflies representing a dozen species, each more colorful than the next, fluttered about like patches attempting to fuse themselves into a crazy quilt. A flagstone footpath sinuated amid neat little gardens planted with zinnias, gladioli, tulips, and peonies. Martina said, "We'll never grow as big as Veritas, of course. But that's not the point."
I studied the roof, its curving face crisscrossed with Veritas's innards — her concrete intestines, gushing lead veins, buzzing nerves of steel and gutta-percha. Something peculiar glided over my head.
"The point is that Satirev is here," Martina continued, "and that it works." A pig. A pig ? Yes, there it was, sailing through the air like a miniature dirigible, flapping its little cherub-wings. A machine of some kind, a child's bizarre toy? No, its squeal was disconcertingly organic.
"Pigs have wings," said Franz. His lie sent a chill through my flesh. A scrawny yellow cat sidled out from behind a forsythia bush, its hairs erect with feline anxiety. It shaped itself into an oblong of fur and shot toward the Center for Creative Wellness. An instant later, its pursuer appeared. A dog, I assumed at first. But no. Wrong shape. And that tail, long and ropelike.
The shudder began in my lower spine and expanded. A rat. A rat the size of a pregnant badger.
Chasing a cat.
"This is a very strange place," I said, staring into Martina's exotically adorned eyes. "Wouldn't you say?"
"Strangeness is relative," she replied.
"I'm bewildered," I said.
"It's not hard to make a lie, Jack. Avant-garde microbiology will give you a flying pig, an outsized rat — anything you want."
"I'm still bewildered."
"Satirev takes some getting used to," said Franz, smiling prolifically. "I'm sure you'll be able to master it. You look like a champ to me, Jack." The telephone booth sat on a knoll smothered in purple grass and five-leaf clovers. Slowly I limped through the odd flora — my body felt like a single gigantic bruise — and pushed the sliding door against the jamb.
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