Erika Five had arisen from her creation tank less than twenty-four hours earlier, she was up-to-date on her husband’s life and accomplishments. The events of his day were regularly downloaded directly to the brain of a wife in development, that she might be born fully understanding both his greatness and the frustrations that an imperfect world visited upon a man of his singular genius.
Erika, like other key Alphas, also knew the names of all the Alphas, Betas, Gammas, and Epsilons produced in the Hands of Mercy, as well as what work they performed for their creator. Consequently, the name Harker was familiar to her.
Until a few days before, when something went wrong with him, an Alpha named Jonathan Harker had been a homicide detective with the New Orleans Police Department. In a confrontation with two detectives who were members of the Old Race—O’Connor and Maddison—the renegade Harker was supposedly killed by shotgun fire and by a plunge off a warehouse roof.
The truth was stranger than the official fiction.
Just during the past day, between his two beatings of Erika, Victor performed an autopsy on Harker and discovered that the Alpha’s torso was largely missing. The flesh, internal organs, and some bone structure seemed to have been eaten away. Fifty or more poundsof the Alpha’s mass had disappeared. From the carcass trailed a severed umbilical cord, suggesting that an unintended life form had developed inside Harker, fed upon him, and separated from its host following the fall from the roof.
Now Erika sipped her cognac. The troll sipped his wine.
Resorting to a literary allusion that she felt appropriate, though she would never fully understand the reference if she never read the dangerous book by Joseph Conrad, Erika said, “Sometimes I wonder if I’m Marlow, far upriver with Kurtz, and ahead of us—and behind us—lies only the heart of an immense darkness.”
The troll’s lipless mouth produced an approximation of a lip-smacking sound.
“You grew inside Harker?” she asked.
The cut-glass container marshaled the light of the amorphous flame into square, rectangular, and triangular tiles that presented the troll’s face as a shimmering red mosaic. “Yes,” he rasped. “I am from what I was.”
“Harker is dead?”
“He who was is dead, but I am who was.”
“You are Jonathan Harker?”
“Yes.”
“Not just a creature who grew in him like a cancer?”
“No.”
“Did he realize you were growing in him?”
“He who was knew of I who am.”
From the tens of thousands of literary allusionsthrough which Erika could scan in an instant, she knew that, in fairy tales, when trolls or manikins or other such beings spoke in either riddles or in a convoluted manner, they were trouble. Nevertheless, she felt a kinship with this creature, and she trusted him.
She said, “May I call you Jonathan?”
“No. Call me Johnny. No. Call me John-John. No. Not that.”
“What shall I call you?”
“You will know my name when my name is known to me.”
“You have all of Jonathan’s memories and knowledge?”
“Yes.”
“Was the change you underwent uncontrolled or intentional?”
The troll smacked the flaps of his mouth together. “He who was thought it was happening
to
him. I who am realize he
made
it happen.”
“Unconsciously, you desperately wanted to become someone other than Jonathan Harker.”
“The Jonathan who was … he wanted to be like himself but become other than an Alpha.”
“He wanted to remain a man but be free of his maker’s control,” Erika interpreted.
“Yes.”
“Instead,” she said, “you shed the Alpha body and became … what you are now.”
The troll shrugged. “Shit happens.”
CHAPTER 16
FROM BEHIND A POTTED RAFUS PALM on the veranda of the Arceneaux house, Bucky Guitreau watched as his nude wife rapped lightly on a family-room window. He shifted his weight ceaselessly from one foot to the other, so excited that he could not keep
Erika, like other key Alphas, also knew the names of all the Alphas, Betas, Gammas, and Epsilons produced in the Hands of Mercy, as well as what work they performed for their creator. Consequently, the name Harker was familiar to her.
Until a few days before, when something went wrong with him, an Alpha named Jonathan Harker had been a homicide detective with the New Orleans Police Department. In a confrontation with two detectives who were members of the Old Race—O’Connor and Maddison—the renegade Harker was supposedly killed by shotgun fire and by a plunge off a warehouse roof.
The truth was stranger than the official fiction.
Just during the past day, between his two beatings of Erika, Victor performed an autopsy on Harker and discovered that the Alpha’s torso was largely missing. The flesh, internal organs, and some bone structure seemed to have been eaten away. Fifty or more poundsof the Alpha’s mass had disappeared. From the carcass trailed a severed umbilical cord, suggesting that an unintended life form had developed inside Harker, fed upon him, and separated from its host following the fall from the roof.
Now Erika sipped her cognac. The troll sipped his wine.
Resorting to a literary allusion that she felt appropriate, though she would never fully understand the reference if she never read the dangerous book by Joseph Conrad, Erika said, “Sometimes I wonder if I’m Marlow, far upriver with Kurtz, and ahead of us—and behind us—lies only the heart of an immense darkness.”
The troll’s lipless mouth produced an approximation of a lip-smacking sound.
“You grew inside Harker?” she asked.
The cut-glass container marshaled the light of the amorphous flame into square, rectangular, and triangular tiles that presented the troll’s face as a shimmering red mosaic. “Yes,” he rasped. “I am from what I was.”
“Harker is dead?”
“He who was is dead, but I am who was.”
“You are Jonathan Harker?”
“Yes.”
“Not just a creature who grew in him like a cancer?”
“No.”
“Did he realize you were growing in him?”
“He who was knew of I who am.”
From the tens of thousands of literary allusionsthrough which Erika could scan in an instant, she knew that, in fairy tales, when trolls or manikins or other such beings spoke in either riddles or in a convoluted manner, they were trouble. Nevertheless, she felt a kinship with this creature, and she trusted him.
She said, “May I call you Jonathan?”
“No. Call me Johnny. No. Call me John-John. No. Not that.”
“What shall I call you?”
“You will know my name when my name is known to me.”
“You have all of Jonathan’s memories and knowledge?”
“Yes.”
“Was the change you underwent uncontrolled or intentional?”
The troll smacked the flaps of his mouth together. “He who was thought it was happening
to
him. I who am realize he
made
it happen.”
“Unconsciously, you desperately wanted to become someone other than Jonathan Harker.”
“The Jonathan who was … he wanted to be like himself but become other than an Alpha.”
“He wanted to remain a man but be free of his maker’s control,” Erika interpreted.
“Yes.”
“Instead,” she said, “you shed the Alpha body and became … what you are now.”
The troll shrugged. “Shit happens.”
CHAPTER 16
FROM BEHIND A POTTED RAFUS PALM on the veranda of the Arceneaux house, Bucky Guitreau watched as his nude wife rapped lightly on a family-room window. He shifted his weight ceaselessly from one foot to the other, so excited that he could not keep
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