“Life is special kind of miracle,” he repeated, half-whispered, like a prayer.
I nodded. “That’s why Bridger can’t just raise the dead.”
Carlyle froze. “Right. Right.” He paused. You and I cannot read minds, reader, but we both know the torrent of possibilities which were multiplying in Carlyle from that thought. “Did Emma Platz … no, it wouldn’t help.”
“Did Emma Platz what?”
I caught a tremor in his lips. “Did Emma Platz remember the afterlife?”
I felt my heart thrill at the question too. A sensayer’s question. “No, but Pointer may tomorrow, when Bridger brings them back.”
Pale skin went paler. “You’ve decided, then? To bring them back?”
“Not yet, but Bridger will feel sad and guilty every day forever if they don’t do it. Could you resist, day in, day out, if you could resurrect a friend?”
“No. No, I couldn’t. No one could.”
I did not correct him. I waited for more questions, but four breaths passed and Carlyle was still mulling on the afterlife, fidgeting with his hair and watching me hazily as I crawled across the floor. I watched him in return, the curve of his little chin, the fierce blue of his eyes, almost unnatural. Many would say it is unnatural, since his mother’s perfection had been handcrafted trait by trait from the finest chromosomes French ancestry offered, but Aristotle—the Philosopher—reminds us that man is an animal, a part of nature just as much as fruit and vine, so Danaë’s too-blue eyes, too-practiced gestures, even her lotus blossom tower of glass and steel, all are as natural as peacock’s plumes, or beaver dams. “Why were you given this assignment?” I asked at last.
Carlyle was still staring more through me than at me. “That is the question…”
Nothing could have endeared the Cousin to me more. He thought I meant it metaphysically, that I meant to ask what Fate, what Hand, what meddling spirit or inexorable Clockmaker had placed him in Bridger’s path. That’s all he thought of. Even after Eureka’s questioning, it didn’t occur to him that I was suspicious of his assignment, that I smelled a rat behind this green, young Cousin who had been granted access to this most private Humanist bash’. If there was a motive, some enemy of the Humanists, or of Andō and Danaë moving in the dark, this sweet, sincere, true vocateur sensayer didn’t know.
“When you started to doubt it was real,” I began softly, “was it because you thought it was impossible? Or was it because it’s something you’ve always wanted to be true so badly that, now that it is true, you’re worried you just deceived yourself into believing?”
Something in the question made him hide behind his hair. “I’ve never wished to bring toys to life.”
“Miracle. That is what you’re thinking, I know it is. You said you weren’t afraid of the word ‘miracle.’ ”
“You know I can’t discuss too deeply.”
“You can. This isn’t a session, Member … Carlyle. You’re not my sensayer. I have a court-appointed sensayer.”
“If this isn’t a session, it’s borderline illegal.”
I rose; some things should not be said while on one’s knees. “It’s a law we have to break.” I met his gaze, and held it. “We have to. In the name of science, reason, all humanity. Something is happening with Bridger, something real, magical, metaphysical. We have to discuss it, test it. We have to figure out what to do. It could be the most important thing that’s ever happened. Or things like this could have happened a hundred thousand times throughout history, but there’s some deeper reason history hid them all. This isn’t a question of us risking disrupting world peace by spreading some cult belief. This is a question of uncovering the deep truth about the provable reality humanity lives in, and someday sharing that.”
I want to say that Carlyle paused to steel himself, but his movements were all the signatures of weakness: huddling, hugging himself within the encircling looseness of his Cousin’s wrap, like a child amid the covers. But I think, in his gentle way, that was his steel. “I could say many cults have thought the same. But you’re right. The potential is too great, the immediate, human applications if we can understand this power. We can’t investigate it fully without talking about the theological end as well.” He took a deep breath. “And on that note, I’ve been thinking, is it really right to wait and not show Bridger to anyone until they’re an adult? What if something happens in the meantime? What if Bridger falls and breaks their neck? All that potential gone. And even without that, there’s all the good this power could do that isn’t being done in the meantime. Not raising the dead necessarily, that has a lot of other implications we have to look at, but smaller things. Bridger could cure Stereocox.”
“We have.”
“What?”
“I had Bridger make a cure eighteen months ago and sent it anonymously to Pele Chemical. Testing is underway.”
“You … you did…”
“Remember three years ago when they found a treatment for Waldfogel’s Vein? That was Bridger too.”
He swallowed. “But Bridger can do more than just cure one disease. That healing potion can make wounds vanish instantly.”
“And if something like that turned up anonymously on a lab’s doorstep, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men wouldn’t rest until they’d traced it. We’ve tried to test it, but the potion transformed the microscope itself. It’s beyond current science, or at least beyond equipment we can get at without leaving a paper trail. Hopefully science will explain it someday, even reproduce it, but they won’t learn to really understand it without access to the source. For that, Bridger needs to be ready to face becoming the center of all the hope and envy of the world, and before that can happen they need to learn to talk to strangers.”
Carlyle nodded, but there was still an edge of huddle in his poise. “But every day…”
I stood my ground. “Moral calculus like that will drive you crazy. The people who die today or tomorrow because they don’t have Bridger’s potions aren’t on your conscience, any more than the people who died yesterday, or a thousand years ago. We’re doing what we can with Bridger. We’re on the edge now of moving from baby steps to real steps. You’re the first real step. If you do well, the second may come soon. That’s all anyone could ask.”
He smiled. “Yes. You’re right. And I can do it well, I know I ca—” The growl of his angry stomach cut him off.
I laughed aloud. “You forgot to feed yourself today, didn’t you?”
“I guess I did.”
“There’s a lunch box on the table,” I offered, “good and fresh. Eat.”
“Thank you.” He took it and had started on the dainty knot before he realized. “Wait, this … I can’t take food from a Servicer. You earned this. I’m supposed to feed you.”
I almost snickered. “Bridger can make filet mignon out of cardboard. I’m not going to go hungry.”
He returned my smile. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” I mumbled it, distracted by remembering whose delicate fingers had prepared the plump little lunch that Fate and I had placed in the Gag-gene’s hands. “I mean, you’re welcome. It’s the least I can offer after I tackled you before. Thank you for not reporting me.”
Carlyle smile grew richer. “You’ve offered a lot more than that. You did this very well, very gently. You answered a lot, and pushed me when I needed to be pushed. You’re right that we have to talk about this, about what we think it means, that we have to use words like ‘miracle,’ ‘metaphysics,’ ‘fate,’ as well as ‘magic’ and ‘phenomenon.’ But you haven’t pushed me to actually do it yet.”