Unfurl (6 page)

I heard only silence. I was alone. I had to figure this out by myself.

So, where was the truth in all of the things Hans had told me?

If I gave Helmann one of my eggs, disgusting though it sounded, would he stop his intended decimation of the world? If what Hans told me was true, it sounded like a simple trade–off.

But
something
bothered me about it. And until I could navigate to the core of that unease, I couldn’t make a decision. Meanwhile, the clock ticked. Hans had called our meal together breakfast. If I was indeed in San Francisco, and if Hans could travel swiftly when rippled, then I’d arrived here at maybe 7:00 in the morning. Breakfast had been somewhere around 8:00. Which made sense, because no way would my dad sleep in past 8:00 even though we’d all been up ‘til 2:00. I had maybe ten hours ‘til my parents expected me back home again.

Ten hours in which to decide the fate of the world.

But I didn’t actually
know
if I would truly be deciding the fate of billions. I didn’t know if Hans was telling the truth.

Another knock on the door.

I sat up, alert.

A woman entered, bowed with hands in a position I’d seen on Sylvia’s yoga DVDs.

“
Namasté
,” she said. “I am Indira. I am instructed to ask if you wish for a massage? I can provide any style you like: Swedish, relaxation, deep tissue—”

“A massage?” I raised both eyebrows. “Seriously?”

Her expression remained calm as she awaited my answer.

“Um, no,” I said. “I don’t need a massage.”

She bowed again, palms together, and exited.

Okay, that was weird.

I tried to gather my thoughts back together. What did I know about Helmann?

One: He’d experimented on his own kids. I had the journal from Pfeffer to back that up as well as Sir Walter’s accounts.

Two: Helmann had purged those with the gene to ripple, both during WWII and within the last decade. Although Hans had blamed
Helga
for the more recent purges, when I’d eavesdropped on them last fall.

Three: Helmann thought it was a justifiable act to end the lives of anyone he chose. I’d seen that in the video we’d watched, and Hans’ claims just now backed this up.

Four: Helmann wanted me alive even though at one point he tried to have me killed.

Another knock at my door.

“What?” I asked, irritated by the interruption.

A nurse entered the room, trailing medical paraphernalia.

“I haven’t said yes,” I said. A chill raced along my spine.

“I just need to take your vitals,” he said. “Now,” he added when I didn’t respond. He held a blood pressure cuff in one hand.

“My vitals are fine,” I said. But then I wondered if this was true. I still felt very strange inside if I tried to focus on it. My insides were too much like … Jell–o. Maybe I needed monitoring, thanks to whatever drug Hans had used to prevent me from rippling. I extended an arm, sighing.

The nurse checked my pulse, clipped something to my index finger, and took a blood–pressure reading without speaking to me.

“So, how am I?” I asked.

“All within expected parameters,” replied the nurse, wrapping the cuff into a tight roll.

“That’s good?” I asked, hoping for a more definitive response.

“All as expected,” said the nurse, quickly exiting the room.

I sighed and closed my eyes to re–collect my scattered thoughts.

What did I know about Hans?

He’d murdered my mom and my childhood friend. Now he spoke of regrets. Did he regret his murders? Was he telling the truth about himself? About his father?

Sir Walter agreed that Helmann had loved Elisabeth, and he said her only living descendents came from children she’d had with someone besides Helmann. So that part was probably true: that Helmann wished she’d had
his
children. The journal translations indicated strong feelings for his wife. Especially all that scribbling in the margins about “Elisabeth is dead.”

But Sir Walter said Helmann had plans beyond the so–called “elimination of suffering.” That he planned to reward followers with the gene I carried, one which would allow his followers to live lives of extraordinary lengths. I thought back to the video Sir Walter had sent us. Helmann had asked those assembled to imagine a future where their children lived free of war, disease and poverty
with enough time
in which to enjoy such lives.

So what did I have to do with this vision? He already had the gene for rippling and extending lives. Heck, Hans carried that gene. Helga had carried it, as had Deuxième, her child. They didn’t need me for the gene.

So why did they need me? Or more precisely, one of my eggs?

Could it be as simple as Hans said? That Helmann was now old–and–wise enough to retire and pour himself into the raising of a child he’d thought he could never have: one with Elisabeth’s blood flowing in its veins?

The door opened again. Room Service stepped inside, his Brooks still trailing sand.

“Can I get you anything? Food? More hot chocolate?”

I stared at his shoes. “Nice Brooks,” I said.

Looking flustered, he glanced at his feet.

“I guess you can’t discuss running with me either?” I asked, curious how he’d respond.

“They’re worth every penny,” he said. A tiny grin lit his face but was quickly extinguished. “More hot chocolate?”

“No thanks.”

“Is there anything else I can get you?”

I shook my head and he left. Too late, I thought of something.

“A Do Not Disturb sign would be nice,” I said to the empty room. It was like Hans didn’t want me to have peace and quiet in which to make an informed decision. I sighed. Of course he didn’t.

I’d burned through another hour or more, yet I felt no closer to making a decision. Which was ridiculous. How could I possibly value
one tiny egg
over millions—no, billions—of lives? What if I could really stop Helmann from destroying the world with this one small gift?

I groaned and flopped onto the couch. It was a horrible couch. Who would design something at once so ugly and uncomfortable? I felt exhausted. Maybe I did need food. My mouth opened into a huge and extended yawn. I definitely needed sleep.

No, you don’t!
I warned myself, sitting up. “You need to make a decision and get out of here!”

What is the worst thing that could happen if you gave an egg to Helmann?
I asked myself.

“How the heck am I supposed to know?” The words flew out, half–growled.

A quick knock sounded at the door and Hans appeared.

“I haven’t decided, okay?” I barked out the question.

I felt a wave of anger coming towards me from within his mind. His face, however, remained impassive. Had I imagined it?

“Not to worry,” he said. “I’ve arranged for you to view some films I made hoping to persuade my father to change his plans,” he said. “I was unsuccessful with him, but I’d like for you to see
my
vision for the future.”

“Okay,” I said.

Hans left. Mr. Expensive Running Shoes brought in a cart with a tablet computer, set it up quickly, and left, too. I was alone with Hans’ Vision For The Future.

I watched several short films of humanitarian efforts being carried out worldwide. Water purification was brought to a village that had previously suffered from yearly outbreaks of cholera. Vaccinations were offered in rural area where AIDs had ravaged the population. I watched Hans delivering milking goats to a village with no green thing in sight. The goats munched happily on dead–looking weeds. Children laughed trying goat’s milk for the first time.

The videos ended and the screen went blank. It sure looked like Hans wanted to help the poor and underprivileged.

I leaned back upon the unyielding couch. The images played again and again through my head. Before I knew it, I was lying on my back, staring at the ceiling, still contemplating the differences between Hans’ vision for the future and that of his father.

Just a quick nap,
I told myself.
Just a couple minutes with my eyes closed, so I can think straight.
It felt so good to shut out the sterile, bright room.

I fell at once into dreams in which I watched myself within Helga’s tooth–pulling room. I beheld Hans as he strolled in, casually glanced at me, pressed a cruel finger upon the bruise on my face. I remembered things I hadn’t wanted to recall while awake: how Hans had instructed his sister to
kill
me.

Why hadn’t he recognized me?

“
You’re just one more brown–haired, brown–eyed inferior to him, dear,
” said Helga in my dream. “
You don’t honestly expect him to tell one of you from another, do you?
” Her laughter rang icy and jarring in my ears.

My eyes fluttered open and I felt my heart racing. Rubbing tired eyes with the backs of my cold hands, I rose. A small sink occupied one corner of my room and I crossed to it. I let the water run over my hands, soothing and warm. I splashed some on my face.

My insides felt less wobbly than they had earlier. Was there a chance I could ripple now? I left the water running and trailed my fingers back and forth through the flow. Clear water, running freely, as it had done in Hans’ videos in the African villages.

I calmed.

I felt infinite, at peace, quieted by the clearness of the water spilling over my hands.

But I couldn’t ripple.

How had Hans even figured out I was a chameleon? How much did he know about me, about my friends? About Will? My heart cried out, angling toward whatever space Will occupied in the world.

I remembered his lips on mine.

But I had to focus on this room.

I remembered his laughter as I swished my hand through the willows on an early run.

I shook my head. I couldn’t think about Will right now. A decision had to be made. I wrenched myself back to the present.

Maybe
Hans was capable of noble action, but I knew him capable of murder. The memory of the night my mother had been killed flashed across my mind. Other memories followed from the dream I’d just left. And there were my recollections of passages from the black book: Hans, grinning as he inflicted cruelty, looking on as a child—his sibling—tested poisoned water.

If Hans was such a great guy, why hadn’t he called up my parents and arranged for a nice chat over a cup of coffee?

What had Hans done, really, to earn my trust? To make me believe what he said about stopping his father’s mad scheme, or even that stopping it was what he truly desired?

Was there one solid reason I should trust this man?

I stood for several moments, hands still in water, waiting to see if my decision would change. Then I turned off the faucet. I dried my hands carefully. I stepped back to wait upon the world’s worst and whitest couch.

I had my answer.

LESS LIKE A FRIEND

·
WILL
·

“Not possible,” said Mick. She grabbed a piece of hair and started twisting it, something I hadn’t seen her do in, like,
years
. “I don’t believe it.”

I knew what she meant. I sure as heck didn’t
want
to believe Pfeffer had gone to work for Helmann. My first thought had been he was totally faking it. I mean, this was Pfeffer we were talking about.
Pfeffer
. How–can–I–convince–you–to–keep–things–secret–Pfeffer. And it wasn’t like he looked any different. I mean, if he’d gone over to the dark side, wouldn’t he—I don’t know—
look
like it? Look more
evil
somehow? I’m not talking twirl–y–mustaches and stuff, but there should be a change.

Something to make him look less like a friend.

“I should never have believed it,
chère Mademoiselle
, had I not with my own eyes beheld it.” Sir Walter sighed long and low.

He was so unnerved, he wasn’t even playing with his goatee. So I had Mick to one side of me, pulling her hair like it was taffy, and Sir Walter’s goatee looking all neglected on the other side.

“Tell us what you heard him thinking,” I said. “I mean, you’re sure he’s all best–buds with Helmann?”

Sir Walter stood and looked out our window. “There can be little doubt. He has learned to conceal a part of his mind, which troubles me. I found it difficult to find his thoughts. But what little I caught was conclusive enough.” The Frenchman turned back towards us. “Pfeffer tests Helmann’s food.”

Mick looked blankly from Sir Walter to me.

“Tests for, like, poison?” I asked.

The goatee–tugging started as he nodded in response.

“Wow. That sounds loyal,” I said. Quickly, I explained to my sister about Helmann’s private Ash Wednesday Mass.

“It’s not Ash Wednesday,” said Mickie. “Not for several days yet.”

I was impressed my sister was keeping track. Of course, she was right, it was Friday, not a Wednesday at all.

“Helmann keeps to the Gregorian calendar,” said Sir Walter. “The calendar of the Catholic Church of our youth.”

“Well, it’s still wrong,” said Mickie. “How can someone like him have the nerve to take communion? I can’t believe God doesn’t strike him dead for it. He’s got to be in a constant state of mortal sin.”

“Many who deserve death receive mercy instead,” said Sir Walter softly.

“I can’t believe we
trusted
him,” said Mick, shaking her head as she moved back to Pfeffer. “And he
lied
to us. For
years
.”

“Mackenzie,” said Sir Walter, “Be not too swift to judge. It is possible Pfeffer dealt by you honestly. Helmann has many methods at his disposal to alter a man’s loyalties.”

Hairs stood up on the back of my neck as he said this. And then a realization hit me like a punch to the gut. “Las Abs. Sam.” It felt like all the air in the room was gone.

“Will, sit down,” my sister said gently.

Didn’t have to tell me twice. The room tilted sharply as I sank onto the couch. Mick came over, squatting down in front of me. She placed firm hands on both of my shoulders.