#my oldest chapter circa March or April 2010

[vvatchword]

Sleeper

The last nightmare Delta had was also the worst, probably because it felt so real.

Usually, dreaming was great. In dreams, passersby were as small as children and he tramped through the halls in full diving regalia. Nobody bothered him. In fact, passersby usually sprinted off in the other direction. Then he’d laugh, although it came out in slow motion. Lasted for hours sometimes. His throat hadn’t been right for ages. He’d had a bad cold since… well, he couldn’t remember, but it had to be months at this point.

It was hard to tell where he was dreaming. Most of the time he dreamed he was in a city under the sea, skyscrapers and everything. The floors were patterned in repeating geometric flower motifs, and brass fish arced up against ceilings, and everywhere was green, green, green, a deep fishy green. Past the city lights was the solid blackness and the distant neon flickers of abyssal life.

He liked it. It was quiet. It was dark.

Sometimes he thought he might be escaping in these dreams, although he couldn’t think of where he wanted to go or why it was so important to leave. While he saw bathysphere stations and airlocks, he never seemed to reach them. He would remember: he couldn’t leave yet because he needed to take something with him.

He’d lumber off to find whatever-it-was. He hadn’t ever found it that he could recall.

The worst dreams were when the lights had all gone out and he heard far-off popping sounds. Holes blown in the floor. Fires burning in a clothing store. A mannequin melting. Horrible raspy screams that went up forever.

Fewer of those pretty dreams anymore.

But there was one good thing that never let him down:

Sister.

Whenever he craved cigarettes, she appeared. It never really made sense, but dreams didn’t have to make sense. He’d start to see her, first faintly and in blips. Then he could see her crawling on her hands and knees through the wall, like a faint impression in TV static, and his heart would lift. When no one was looking, he’d knock on the wall. This was how he told her that the coast was clear.

The vents here were huge. Cartoonishly enormous. Big gusts of fresh air blasted out and fogged his viewplate. When the technicians fucked up the seal on his helmet—which they often did, they were harried these days—he could smell fresh earth. Somewhere, there were forests.

Eyes flickered in the vent like burning coals.

“Daddy,” whispered Sister.

“Ohhhh,” he said, and reached out. His voice came out deep, sonorous, strange.

The nightmares usually started when she tumbled into his arms, all stick limbs and scraped knees. She was the only good thing about them—they were together—they were complete. For at least a few moments, everything was fine.

“Look! Look!” she said, flinging her arms up. “It’s you!”

She plopped a yarn doll up against his faceplate. It had a baseball for the head and a broken wristwatch for a face. The second hand flicked, flicked, flicked, at a second to midnight.

“I made it!” Sister said, smearing it against the glass. “It took me days and days and daaays.”

He groaned appreciatively. Granted, he would have made the same sound if she had held up a rock or a tin can.

For a minute, he would hold her up, feel as though something had locked into place—something was correct—but he was missing an ingredient. Worst part of the nightmares was feeling like they had to go somewhere, and not remembering the location.

“Come on, Daddy!” she said, sliding down his arm. “ADAM!”

She stuffed the doll underneath her arm, yanked her syringe out of her sash, and grabbed his hand with both of hers. He took a step, rumbling, his tone a question.

“Fa-ster,” she said. “Fa-a-aster! Slowpoke! I can smell the ADAM!”

ADAM.

Get ADAM. That’s right.

He followed at a slow trot. He was always slowest and heaviest in nightmares. He couldn’t drag his gaze away from the little brown head bobbing ahead of him. His hand swallowed hers, but he held it with inestimable gentleness.

There was a flicker of movement in the hallway just ahead.

His thumb pressed tightly over the back of Sister’s hand.

It had been there just a moment. A fish’s shadow? A man’s trousered leg? Whatever it was, it was gone.

Didn’t care. He swung up his drill. It was longer than Sister was tall, originally meant for hollowing stone and boring holes in hulls. He never took it off.

Sister’s hand slipped from his. She pattered away as quickly as a cat.

He staggered after her, lowing.

“Hurry uuup,” said Sister, stamping at the top of the stairs. “There’s an Angel!”

A beam of light from an emergency bulb threw her shadow against the wall. She was waxy white, her eyes so bright he couldn’t even see the shadows of her pupils.

For a second, he remembered her standing against the glass in the day lighting, bottom lip sucked under her teeth, pinafore balled up in her fists. She had freckles. He remembered her eyes being blue and her hair being all mussed up. Covered in grime from sliding on her belly through cracks all the goddamn time, and bruises and scrapes all over. Cute fucking kid. Not a good kid, obviously, but that had always reminded him of himself.

Then he tried to remember what he was like as a kid and the whole kit and caboodle slipped away, and all he had was Sister, white and glowing and alone.

Fear tingled all the way to his fingers. He felt distressingly heavy. If she would only stay close… everything would return to normal. Everything would feel better.

“Angel is this way! Come on!” She pattered into the blackness.

He took the stairs three at a time, fingers resting on the lever inside the drill. Jogged through circles of light and deep pools of shadow. He thought he saw movement just ahead. Could have been her.

No.

It wasn’t her little padding feet. These were heavy plastic soles, big pounding scrapes.

He charged down the hall and skidded around the corner.

Sister was alone, kneeling beneath a tilted street lamp. An Angel sprawled below her. She plunged her needle deep into the Angel’s liver and waggled it one way, then the other. Stabbed again, plunged straight through the muscle. Rich red liquid flowed into her bottle; she hummed.

Lowering his drill, he breathed in.

Held the breath.

Breathed out.

“Lily-poppies,” she said in a sing-song voice. “Li-lies. Po-ppies. Sca-bbies.”

Shoulders sinking, he plodded to her side. The Angel rocked beneath her ministrations. A whisper started in the back of his mind.

Bad.

The Angel was fresh. Looked like someone had shot it point blank in the forehead. And this one was nicely dressed, too; nice tuxedo, pressed white shirt, carnation in the buttonhole. His wallet lay beside his upturned hand, the clean bills peeking out of it. He lay on a tarp that stank of fish.

From down the hall, ghosts whispered.

“Is that the one? Is that it?”

“Gotta be. That’s an Alpha. I haven’t seen one of those in ages.”

“Don’t jump the gun. What’s the symbol?”

“Triangle! That’s it! We got ’em.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Nope. Now get out there.”

“No, you do it. You’re the big assassin here.”

“Buddy, you’re the one with the grenades. You don’t even have to get close.”

“I… I can’t. Grenades just… they don’t do shit, man. You saw Joseph. He was in four parts. Four parts.”

“That’s the difference, you idiot. Joseph went alone. We have the Family.”

“Fuck the Family. I’m not suicidal, man!”

“Shhh!”

“Fuck it! You do it yourself!”

Footsteps rushed away down the hall.

“Hey! Hey! Asshole! Come back here!”

Three sets of footsteps, a slammed door…

Delta had already flicked the lamp on his helmet. Nothing. He and Sister were standing in a hub where four tunnels converged. A statue of a man lifting a sunburst leaned against the wall, glittering with glass. He had been felled at the shins; rebar twisted out of the base like dead stalks. All the lights had been blown out except for three emergency bulbs still glowing palely against the ocean.

Sister tilted the bottle back and sucked busily, her doll leaning against her hip. She was sitting. He wished she wasn’t sitting. They might need to start running.

“Hrrrrup,” he said.

She sucked down the dregs, burped, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Syrupy stuff streaked across her cheek.

“Come on, Daddy,” she said, and bounded up to her feet and across the room.

He groaned and charged after her. The doll lay lonely behind them.

“Hurry!” she called. “More Angels!”

She took a tunnel that sloped toward the seabed. On either side, the buildings flew up, a thousand walls and neon signs, shoals of mackerel shifting sluggishly. A Greenland shark drifted by, so dark and still that it might have been dead. For a few minutes, Sister and Delta sprinted alone through the pale green light.

The tunnel terminated at another hub. This one was remarkably clean. The sister statue to the previous hub’s still stood upright, with floodlights throwing dramatic colors over its shoulders in oranges and reds. The plants around its feet still lived, and the fountain still trickled. Fresh water. No rubble. Shining tile. Delta’s boots squeaked on the floor. Through the glass, long rectangles of yellow light; dancers in bright colors wavered.

Maybe this would end up a good dream after all.

Sister raced straight ahead.

“This way!” she said.

She was making a beeline for a door framed by neon. Over it, an animated sign: “NARCISSUS.” The frame flashed from white to red to white again, and gaudy flowers opened over and over and over. Inside the petals were grinning faces. He couldn’t read it; he knew that he should be able to, somewhere in his mind; but the letters were like hieroglyphics, acknowledged, colorful, bright, but meaningless.

Sister threw the door open. Light flooded the corridor, blew out the contrast, hazed everything in gold and white. But he did not hesitate. He charged over the threshold, from tile to carpet. Thick carpet, plush carpet.

“Wipe your feet,” said someone far away.

Delta snarled. Busy.

Two men with guns framed the door. Big, broad-shouldered boys in turtlenecks and black trenchcoats.

“Big Daddy coming through!” one yelled, and dropped his gun, raised his hands, flattened back against the wall.

His friend did the same, but not fast enough. Delta shouldered past him. One elbow was all it took. The trenchcoat hit the floor, hard, and the gun’s stock cracked on the wall. A woman screamed.

The music squawked off. A room full of tuxedos and silks turned as one. Women with ivory barrettes in their hair. Bright red lipsticks. Roses, mums, forget-me-nots. The band, standing on an alabaster dais, with a mirror behind them. Delta saw himself then, hemmed in by scarlet carpet and golden ceiling, stirring up the cigarette smoke. At his feet, party-goers in all the colors of the rainbow, small and perfect and pretty, and Delta like some hulking astronaut from another planet, the uniform color of shit. But Delta only had eyes for one person. He could feel her presence flying ahead of him. He plunged through the crowd, past the marble bar, the waiters in matching vests. Sharp gasps; a soft cry.

The closest partygoer turned, making a face.

“What is that god-awful stench?” he said.

Delta brushed by. The man slammed so hard against the bar that he threw his martini over his shoulder and baptized the bartender.

“Just a Big Daddy, folks!” someone was shouting. “Just a Big Daddy! Don’t touch the Little Sister. Careful. Careful. They’re just passing through.”

“Can’t wait until this war is over,” someone slurred. “Can’t even go for a drink…”

Door marked “Exit.” Delta could see it closing slowly, and there were two more trenchcoat men with their hands up against the wall.

Delta banged through the door. Behind him, startled chatter rose up, as did the ragged upswell of swing. He had entered a utility hallway leading to restrooms. Only a handful of people lingered here—smoke-breakers and hangovers. The carpet surrendered to tile. A trash can with a polished cap.

The dark mouth into another hub.

He could vaguely see his Sister through the dream-sight then. She’d found an Angel, all right. Another one, lying on a tarp, this one scruffy, no wallet, hadn’t shaved. Shot point-blank between the eyes. In his hazy other-vision, he could almost feel the dimple in the skull.

Sudden color against the checkered tile.

Sister screamed.

An electrical jolt flashed through Delta; his heart missed a beat.

“Give it here, you brat!” a man said.

Delta roared and charged down the hallway. He shoved one half-drunk man out of his way and the hapless fellow jabbed an elbow through the wall. Far behind him, the party went silent again; pretty heads peeped out.

Delta slid to a stop on a balcony. Just below, lit up as though on a stage, was Sister, circled by four pacing ne’er-do-wells in threadbare pants and patched jackets. Worst of all was the bulky man who struggled to yank her needle from her hands. He flung her back and forth—back and forth and back and…

Delta’s heart throbbed—another electrical jolt sizzled through his chest, this one twice as painful as the last—

Hang on, kid!

Delta flung himself over the balcony. Moment of weightless glory, then the full brunt of all 1,500 pounds came crashing down. He smashed the first man under his boots like a beetle. Yanked the lever in the drill and it roared to life, rattled his bones all the way up and down his spine. The attackers spun back, dipping, ducking, like hyenas around a rogue lion.

“The bigger they are!” cried a man on Delta’s left, and lunged, swinging.

His pipe clanged off of Delta’s shoulder. The next second, Delta’s drill bored him a second navel. The man gurgled, a kittenish sound, before his ribcage split open like the leaves of a book.

At the same time, the only woman in the pack leaped on Delta’s shoulder, pounding him with her wrench until his head felt like the clapper in a bell. She was screaming something, but hell if he cared what it was. Spinning, flinging the legs and trunk of the first man into the air, he hurled her against the tile. She bounced, leg cracking beneath her, and slid over her partner’s blood. It was no getaway. One good uppercut, a solid strike beneath her chin, and Delta launched her across the room. She cracked against the wall and flopped wetly to the floor, her leg bent at an awkward angle and her head torn half off.

Glaring at him from the foot of the stairs was the final attacker, the thickset man with small eyes. He had curled his elbow around Sister’s neck with his left arm, jammed her needle into his right, pumping the ADAM-rich slurry into his body. Blue light chased the outlines of his veins, glazed his fingers in crackling light.

“Want some, big guy?” the asshole hissed.

Screaming with rage, blind with terror that was half his and half his Sister’s, Delta flung himself up the stairs.

He didn’t even see the flick of the wrist; all he saw was the beam of lightning. The impact boomed against his breast. He reeled, slid, staggered through the banister, somehow didn’t go over. Lights and dials sputtered. Liquid fire roiled beneath his skin, and every muscle tightened in his arms and legs, and his chest seemed to be bound with iron. His heart seized up again. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t breathe.

“Da-ddy!” Sister wailed.

All he could see was Sister’s face, twisted up in horror. Everything else around her faded. The thickset asshole backpedaled, dragged her further toward the doors at the top of the stairs. Sister kicked and bit and clawed, stretching out her arm, like she could pull Delta back up onto his feet by will alone…

Groaning, reaching toward her, Delta jabbed the point of his drill into the floor and lifted. He took one staggering step forward. Then another. And another. Faster, and faster. This time, when the asshole flicked his hand, Delta ducked—thunder boomed over his shoulder—and in two swift steps Delta clenched him around the throat.

Hacking, eyes bulging, the man dropped Sister and her needle and his hands flew to Delta’s arm. He flashed with light just as Delta’s thumb punched into his windpipe. The explosion blasted them apart. Delta skidded, tumbled, crashed on the staircase. Above, the light-spangled ceiling slipped sideways.

The thickset man hadn’t fared much better. He rolled over the ground, spasming.

Little pattering footsteps.

Sister threw her arms around Daddy’s elbow. Delta patted her on the back. His hands were still quaking. The stairs shuddered beneath his formidable weight.

Twitching, moaning, Delta heaved himself to his feet. Sister scrabbled up his side and snuggled up against his helmet. Delta whirled to face the thickset man again, raising his drill.

“Unzip him, Daddy,” Sister whispered in his ear.

Panting, spitting blood, the thickset man dragged himself to his knees, snapping his fingers. The electricity on his palms faded quickly; he folded his hands together, and when he raised his palm again, there was a dripping green polyp balanced on his hand.

“Go to hell,” he rasped, and pitched.

A pop like a water balloon. Wet green flesh burst all over Delta’s faceplate. A wave of confusion swept through him, tingled down his spine. It was far more disorienting than the electricity. His muscles seized up, one after another.

Groaning, Delta dragged to a stop. The point of his drill hovered at the attacker’s throbbing throat.

“Unzip him, Daddy! Unzip him!” Sister said. “What are you waiting for?”

Delta commanded his arm to move, but it wouldn’t. Could not fold his fingers. Couldn’t even make a sound. He labored to breathe. Fear billowed up in the pit of his stomach.

The attacker reached up slowly, pushed the drill away with the flat of his hand.

“Hold your breath,” he whispered.

Delta hacked. His throat seized. A wondering groan started in the pit of his belly.

“Bad man!” screamed Sister.

She sprang off of Delta’s back and onto the thickset man, stabbing him in the shoulder with her needle. Screaming, he threw her off, and she rolled down the steps. The thickset man charged after her, wrenched her to her feet.

“Brat!” he said, backhanding her.

“Da-addy!” Sister cried, her voice strangled.

Delta choked, coughed. He sucked each breath down with effort, and turned — it was like trying to move through molasses. He stretched his arm out — his drill sputtered to life. But the thickset man flung his hand out and splayed his fingers wide. Delta released the lever and the drill wound down again with a disappointing whine.

“That’s right, big guy,” the asshole whispered. “Wait right there.”

A door opened at the head of the stairs.

“Told you, right he… oh my god!” said a man.

“Eleanor?” said a woman with a British accent. “And Louie.”

The thickset man whirled around. Sister squirmed in his hand.

“Doctor Lamb!” he sputtered. “This isn’t what it looks like!”

He dropped Sister. She stamped on his foot — he hissed, leaning over his knee. With a squeal, Sister raced to Delta’s side.

“Daddy!” she said, tugging on his hand. “We’ve got to go, Daddy!”

Delta managed a gurgling sound.

Sister swung on his leaden arm, wailing. “Wake up! Wake up!”

“Eleanor,” said the lady, stepping down toward them. “Eleanor. Come here.”

Sister and Delta locked eyes with each other. An unspoken question ran between them.

“What happened?” asked the man behind Doctor Lamb. His voice was strangled.

“Knuckles, you cunt,” rasped Louie. “Doctor Lamb, this fucker is worse than useless. The minute he saw the mark, he ran. Of course he took the grenades and fucked up the entire plan and now everybody else is dead.”

The little man cringed. “I’m… I’m sor…”

“Fuck off.”

“Louie, Knuckles, please.” Dr. Lamb gripped Sister’s hands and pried the tiny fingers free. The girl stared up at the woman, slack-jawed, as though she wasn’t sure what she was seeing. Dr. Lamb’s face was severe—high cheekbones, sharp chin, shark eyes. Not a hair out of place. Not a wrinkle in her suit.

“She don’t recognize you, doc,” said Louie. “They never do.”

“What was wrought with these methods can also be unwrought,” said Dr. Lamb, prying the tiny hands free.

Delta swayed on his feet, and his strained gurgling grew frantic. His heart felt like it would wrench itself out of his chest. Lamb looked him in the eye in the same way one might examine a statue.

His fingers itched.

Dr. Lamb dragged Sister to the base of the stairs. She kicked, wailed, screamed. Dr. Lamb’s knuckles were white and tensed, her arm stiff, but the way she pressed her hand to her breast was with the same unhurried emphasis as an actor on a TV screen.

“This is not your daughter,” she said. “Do you understand? Her name is Eleanor. And she is mine.”

“Doc, he’s an automaton,” said Louie. “He can’t…”

She held one long finger up. Louie sighed and fell silent.

“Now. Kneel, please.” The lady extended a hand to her side. Knuckles, small and shivering, handed her a pistol.

Delta dropped to his knees. His arms relaxed.

“Remove your helmet,” she said.

He reached up to his helmet and patted around for the wingnuts. Every time he’d gone in for maintenance, the techs had started stealing them for other projects, and he had been left with just two—one on his right shoulder, the other on his left. They were loose enough; he tossed them to the floor with trembling hands, then pressed the hilt of his drill against his helm and twisted it free. The pressure within equalized with the room, and his eyes and ears popped. With some effort, he lifted the helmet off and laid it beside his drill. The air burned against his eyes, but he did not blink; his eyes were still locked with Sister’s. Her face was even more ashen than before.

Knuckles gasped.

“Woof,” said Louie, and whistled.

Dr. Lamb did not blink. If she were horrified, she didn’t show it.

“Now. Take this pistol,” she said, holding it out.

With agonizing slowness, Delta folded his hand around the stock. Could everyone hear how fast his heart was going? Fuck, he still couldn’t breathe.

“Hold it to your head.”

He fought the impulse with all his might. But slowly, inexorably, he raised the muzzle to his temple. Sister covered her mouth.

Dr. Lamb folded her hands across her lap. “Fire.”

For a second, his heart beat in tandem with Sister’s, and he knew that she understood. In that single moment, when all he could see was her terrified face, he could hear her voice in his head—a stream of terrified gibberish, something he had only heard once before.

Don’t leave me Daddy please don’t leave me please oh please

He pulled the trigger.

All he felt was the impact. He did not hear the shot, only her voice, a scream that surged up from both of their hearts at once. He never heard it end.

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