“Dad!”
<mourning>
My father had stepped out in front of me, between me and the barrel of Vashlov’s gun. As if he were trying to make up for thirteen years of lost parenting with a single act. And now he was dead. I put my hand to his neck but couldn’t get a warm pulse anywhere.
I had no tears. Inhuman, you think?
It was like the thirteen years had erased the father from my father. My sadness was a far gentler, quieter thing than what I had felt at Cian’s death or even at the first “death,” which had been Miach’s. In thirteen years, my father had become a stranger, with nothing to identify him to me, save the unseen, encoded ties of blood between us.
But it hadn’t been that way for him, had it. He had abandoned me and gone off with Miach to his own medical mecca. Yet he had still loved his daughter, even as I felt hardly anything for him at all. Perhaps his stepping in front of me had not been a conscious act but a reflexive one encoded in his DNA. Maybe that was the love I lacked—the love for one’s family.
My father had died for me, so now the only way I could repay him was with gratitude.
“Thank you.”
</mourning>
I reached down and smoothed my father’s half-opened eyelids shut, then stood, listening to the wheezing sound coming from Vashlov’s windpipe. He would be joining my father soon, but if he were still alive, I had plenty of things I wanted to ask him first.
“My father is dead. I hope you’re happy.”
“Works for me,” he said quietly. “I was hoping to abduct— but death is a big win too. Thanks to you sniffing around we managed to drag him out. Finally got Nuada…They’ll have a hard time putting things together now. Very hard. General chaos will take care of the rest.”
“What is it that you want?”
“What do we want? To build a new, post-chaos world. To bring an enduring harmony…”
There was something very disturbing about a group claiming they wanted peace when they had just plunged the world into darkness with a wave of suicides, and then, in the greatest act of terror in history, demanded the survivors kill each other.
“I don’t see a whole lot of harmony out there right now.”
“Things will settle down, as they must. This chaos is merely a step on the path toward peace. Miach Mihie has shown us the way. She is our prophet. She has a vision for mankind…the right path for us to take. You know her from when you were a child. You know that she can see what is yet to come.”
“So she had to make six thousand people try to kill themselves for this future?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s not very convincing.” I grabbed him by the collar. “Where’s Miach?”
I could see blood seeping from Vashlov’s chest with every breath. He had lost a lot already. I must’ve hit a big artery or vein in there. Some of it was getting into his lungs, making it hard for him to breathe. His voice was a whisper, forced out through something that sounded just like I imagined a death rattle would sound.
“The suicides and the threats are just…the catalyst. Things are already in motion. But if you must know, Miach told me I could tell you where she was—but you have to promise to shoot me in the head if I tell you.”
Vashlov’s lips thinned and he formed a warped smile. For a moment, I hesitated.
A pleading look came into his eyes. “This really hurts. It hurts. Th-this is what pain feels like. WatchMe and medcare, you bastards, you sure did a fine job of keeping me in the dark about this sensation. Doesn’t that piss you off, Miss Kirie? Please…”
“Fine. Deal.”
I put the barrel of my gun to Vashlov’s forehead and pulled back the hammer. It clicked into place with a satisfying metallic sound and Vashlov breathed out with relief.
“Chechnya. Check with the Anti-Russian Freedom Front in Chechnya.”
“What, Miach is there?”
“You’ll just have to go see for yourself.”
Vashlov nodded to signal he was ready.
Something about the way his eyes looked through me made my finger pause, motionless, on the trigger. Here, beneath the rapidly darkening Iraq sky, I was about to kill someone for the first time in my life. Right here, in this very moment. I was making the same decision that had been forced on billions of people across the world.
This would free me from having to make that choice in a few days, I realized. It felt like cheating. The guy was begging me to do it, and I would even be avenging my father’s death. You couldn’t make up a better rationale than that. I steadied my grip on the gun and felt intense self-loathing.
A thought occurred to me. Why had my brain developed this function it was expressing now? In what environment would self-loathing give me an evolutionary advantage?
I pulled the trigger.
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<part:number=04:title=The Day the World Went Away/>
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01
<recollection>
The three of us were sitting on a rooftop, each with our own lunch. The contents of mine and Cian’s had both been decided by our mothers based on a range of choices provided them by a lifestyle pattern designer to ensure a perfect balance of nutritional control and modest tastes—so as not to overexcite our youthful minds with shameful flavors.
All our mothers had to do was make the food.
The flavors we needed were determined by a specially trained lifestyle pattern designer who could read our bodies’ preferences and predilections. The designer then ordered all the necessary ingredients online, coordinating with our household management software to make sure our diets stayed within budget.
The various facets of our lives were being divided into smaller and smaller sections. Outsourcing, outsourcing, outsourcing. When I was very small, I had the feeling that things weren’t quite so scattered. I was pretty sure I remembered my mom fretting about my age and height and weight and body fat percentage when I was around five years old. She would read charts, size me up, and come up with her own lunch recipes.
Miach’s lunch was nothing like ours. The recipes were incredibly simple, and more than two-thirds of her rather large lunch box would be filled with white rice and a big reddish-black lump in the middle of it that I think was probably an umeboshi pickled plum.
“Naoya Shiga used to say that the Japanese lost the war because they ate white rice,” Miach said, her cheeks full of white rice laced with sesame salt. A single grain of rice was stuck to her cheek.
“What war?”
“The Second World War. It was a fight between the two nations of America and Japan.”
“But didn’t both of them get divided up by the admedistrations?”
“Right, but this was back when America was still a country. Before the Maelstrom.”
“Um, Miach, that’s great, but you have rice on your face,” Cian broke in, giggling.