Elvissey Read online

  "Elvii misbeliefs dry bones' marrow," he continued, "rend purse and pocket. They convene their daft congress, heedless of our own sessions, wetdreaming absolution from one incapable. Deadeyed to light, they opt for dark." He shook his head. "Lemmings racing cliffways, and here we stand stillfooted, marveling at the cold gray waste."

  "E's fools breathe our needed air," Judy said. "Distract multitudes with tales of vague return. Sense demands we settle." She annotated with a whisper. "My sense says we'll not."

  "All Elvii bewail their lot," he said. "Grow bony by feasting on fancy. Digging oases of pain in deserts of comfort." Mister O'Malley blinked, gazing into his desktop; stared more intently, as if into a pool whose mirror, unexpectedly, revealed another's reflection, one not immediately recognizable. "Such jabbernowling frets and hinders. Our good works go out sans gratitude and all suffer. Therefore, if the converted won't reconvert, their master, or one so guised, should undertake to play our tune. A touch of truthache essentials, lest sharper drama too soon becloak our stage, and weary our watchers of our play."

  "Options sole," said Judy, "our neck or theirs."

  "Friends," his sister said, interrupting once more; a thread of spittle hung from her mouth. "Seamus, friends?" "Friends. Yes, Enid," he sighed. "So if in seeking that

  other world's obscure object you find him, then the Elvii's savior can be awarded bespoken, and shall pronounce as we wish, calming all with his words. His lightning rod shall drain heaven's wrath, leaving sunlight clarified clear. Our new dawn's fingers shall stroke with lover's touch until they fade to black. The Elvii deserve their desired, as the brightminded deserve us." He eyeshut, as if to sleep, and dreama- way; reawakening, he spoke of what he'd dreamed. "In the gone world, similar once was tried, to sad result."

  "Dryden attempted the like sans E figure," Judy said, and again, added commentary. "This'll result sadder, sure."

  "Friends, Seamus." His sister thumbedged smiling, circular faces in the dust atop Mister O'Malley's desk. Mentally challenged, mayhap; she knew her logo so well as any. "Happy."

  "Yes, Enid. Happy." His sister slapped her knees with her hands as if joyful with her noise, staining her palms crimson as they touched her newmade scars. "Then fly breaknecked," he told me, his eyes at last seeking mine, "over there and back again. Guise yourself in stealth's cloak, and cross. Seek. Find. Return. Afterward, lucked, their new shall regood what's left of our old."

  "If successed," Judy transposed, "we be messiasized."

  With his hand Mister O'Malley traced his face's knobs and valleys, as if sanding his fingertips upon his stubble, to make his grasp more delicate, therefore undetectable; as if assuring himself that he was still there. Examining me twiceover before reaverting his eyes, he momentarily incarnated my husband's face upon his own, expressing sans word that he'd closer neared what each-all-sought.

  "All good," he concluded. "Till time's lovely end."

  Windowways, beads of blue fire flared; dropped from an ever-restrung strand. "Sooner," I heard Judy mutter, as we backed away from his desk.

  Between elevator and exit I vizzed the thousand faces of Dryco; its glories manifested throughout the new red lobby, upon its stone floor, beneath its vaults and arches and groins. So chambered, I knew entrapment's feel: jailed within a whale's heart, or in the bloodied womb of Godness. Blasphemy, mayhap, to so meld spiritual metaphor with secular truth; but mine is a faithful blasphemy. Mother Church thralled John and me: we took the Visions of Joanna, Revised, as truthed; when desperate, found-could find no longer-comfort in Her grace; believed as any believed in God and Godness, the Two in One, who preserve Their world that, when Day comes, They might destroy all and enact a cosmic regooding.

  Their competition was present in guise, if not spirit. E's gilded statue revolved atop a pedestal, amid all else which Dryco had gifted unto its world; his icon was shipped from the Dryden estate after Mister O'Malley's redevelopment of the property and, prepping for what was to come, reinstalled here. E's dead eyes stared blind upon his potential worshipers; his vast sculpted belly held a world's weight. His congregants outnumbered, and outshouted, those who followed Godness; my fellow heathen and I knew no escape from the King.

  Elvii were as locusts: harmless, even funful, when singled, and suffocating, massed. They swarmed into their services and into the mass gatherings they termed ElCons, praying for, talking about, listening to and posing as the King for days on end, segregating themselves from the world to celebrate their increasing strength; then, recharged, they'd appear amid the unafflicted populace, proselytizing sans cease, berating their co-workers, distributing illiterate tracts and zines, deadheading computer lines, vandalizing walls and screens with their deconstruction of the word. Dialogu- ing with Elvii became, inevitably, monologuing: they under stood no referents but E, and all else existed but to be measured against his greatness and found lacking. That they believed didn't satisfy; to their eyes all should want him as desperately, and to the exclusion of everything else.

  Millions wanted the King now, wanted without cease, fullfaithed and overt; but which King? The C of E was one church become many; its mitosis ensued at conception, and seemed primed to split, divide and resplit unto perpetuity. Each new denomination contained from its birth fresh infidels, keen to look askance and thereafter contrary: take, as exampled, the Prearmyites. Within their ranks were souls believing the rhythms of E's songs to have been irredeemably tainted, once accompanied by drums; others certained that in recording's act an impenetrable firewall came down between singer and hearer; the sect's fundamentals affirmed sans admittance and argument that between song headheard and throatsung, the shadow showed: that not even the King himself comprehended his deepest glories.

  And the Prearmyite denomination was but one: amongst the Elvii were the Hosts of Memphis, the Shaken, Rattled and Rolled, the River Jordanaires; the Gracelandians, the Vegassenes, the Gladyseans; the C of E Now or Never, the Redeemed Believers in Our Master's Voice, the Church of the True Assumption of His Burning Love, and a hundred dozen more. Each schismatrix knew their King true, and saw their road as sole and only; their only given was that, for whatever reason, and-they supposed-at no one's command, the King would return.

  There were no longer overt Elvii in the tenth and ultimate circle of Dryco as there had been in the Drydens' time; Judy, for one, I suspect, would have preferred that all Elvii be neutralized in oldstyle manner. But regooding forbade elimination, necessitated appeasement. By suggestion of Leverett, by command of Mister O'Malley, against Judy's every wish, it was Dryco's given that if E returned, John and I would bring him, in the guise of his other world's counter part, that he might be tossed into his crowd and so docile them, if not in rejoining quotidian life, at least into departing fully from it. That was the theory as we'd thus far heard it. His exact material form in that other world im- materialled: his new overseers would reengrave the image stolen into desired shape, pleasing his followers in whatever way they wished; but pleasing Dryco, first of all.

  "Denude," I heard my doctor's voice demand; I did. "Table yourself."

  Her image fluttered as a windblown flag, revealing only multihue blur free of formal line. Even when my medicis onscreened true it remained uncertifiable that the women seen were the women speaking; Dryco invariably hired posers if their look better suited perceived prejudice.

  "Arms over and above," my nurse's monitor voiced. "Spread."

  As per the employee plan, females were treated by females in Dryco's health clinics, dissecting and probing and poking with neither less sympathy, nor greater kindness, than would have males. Their names were nonessentialled info; I never knew what to call them that might lull forth an unwittingany-response. Once unshelled, I reclined upon cold metal, wincing at its heel-to-head burn, suspecting that when I departed the clinic this time-as I suspected, every timemy toes would be tagged, my eyelids sewn shut and my sheet wrapped tight around me.

  "Inhale."

  Their machines's songs ascended Eas
tern scales, warming into vibrant modality; once revved, they wailed as banshees. A host of utensils emerged from tabletop, prepping to examine and prod. Metal baffles lifted, encompassing me, that during treatment I could not meet their surrounding stare. Steel bands unribboned, cuffing my wrists; clamps took hold of my ankles and extended upward, angling my legs forty degrees upward. "Physical underway," my doctor noted her record, and then spoke to me. "Relax."

  Our does never neared living patients; needless exposure to such vectors of transmission inevitabled otherwise-avoidable infection.

  "Circulatories, normal," my nurse said, descending the list. "Gene stimulations, uninterrupted. Transmissions, steady. Respiration, acceptable. Lymphonic conversion, responsive. T-cell progressions, negative. Neural response, appropriate. Cell regrowth, positive-"

  "Perspiration, hypertropic," my doctor noted. "Adrenaline output elevating. Blood pressure rising. Relax, Bonney."

  Both nurse and doctor seemed to speak from Mars. Ceiling reflections of machine-light shimmered as if watercast.

  "Rectal readings," my doctor said, "suitabled. Throttle up „

  "Boosters ready." A dozen needles speared me, piercing my arms, my legs, my bottom, neck and spine. Immobilized as I was, all I could do was scream.

  "Administering vaccinations and reboosts as per program: measles A and B, hepatitis varietals, gamma-g, typhoid, Sabin, DS, DPT, malaria, HIV one through six, coryza series, TB, influenza, smallpox, RecomStrain, yellow fever, Carcinomile, RNA screens, pneumonics. Contraindications noted, no unpredicted danger foreseen."

  "Catscans?" asked my nurse.

  "Demonstrate patient's continued viability. Prepare for pelvic insertion."

  My legs, assisted, reached greater altitude as their separation increased, and then the table intruded itself into me; its rod felt to have been chilled for weeks. My fingers grasped at air as I felt myself split. A year-long minute passed before either nurse or doctor spoke.

  "Examination proceeding," said the nurse. I saw a yellow light blinking.

  "Celibate state not contractually demanded," said my doctor, after perfunctory observations. "Cycles abnormalling?"

  "No."

  "Louder, please. Detail reasons."

  "Husband," I said. "His mood lacks. I'm hurting-"

  "Pain responses within boundaries. Discharge evident. Ovulation patterns suitable. Dermal reactions-"

  "Relax," the table's loudspeaker voiced, sounding with a man's ingratiating rumble.

  "Pacify yourself to lessen discomfort. Silence, please. Sedative application proceeding," said my nurse.

  "Don't dope me. Don't-" But their additives already coursed through the needles; momentslong, my head lightened, and as perception altered I watched the overheads waving as if they'd taken on a semblance of life. Shortly, the pain was almost describable, if not bearable.

  "Melanin production abeying as predicted in British studies of Melaway," my doctor noted. "Caucasian similitude attainable on schedule as desired. Continue avoiding noonday sunlight."

  "This drug," I tried to say, "Affecting more than-"

  "Corrective agent," she reworded. "Drugs heal. Corrective agents correct."

  "Term it as suited," I said. "All's incorrective. Headaches, daily. Nausea unavoidable, every mom. Vomiting and cramps. I jointache as if bonebroken. Melaway's causing all, I know-"

  "Expected. Silence, please. Health dissemination proceeding."

  "Relax," the table said.

  "Expected?" I replayed, hearing my words slur as I enabled them to crawl over my lips. "Every effect?"

  "Not unexpected," my doctor said. "Further questions?"

  "AO. At treatment termination I'll darken anew?"

  "As detailed earlier," she said. "Original skin pigmenta tion redevelops within three weeks following cessation of treatment with Melaway. Exhale."

  "Certify harmlessness," I said. "These effects-"

  "Total harmlessness uncertifiable with any experimental corrective agents. Silence, please. Further elaboration ines- sentialled within program guidlines and can only result in patiental intensified confusion induction. Inhale."

  Their thing slid deeper into me. "Get it out," I shouted, not wanting to cry.

  "Tear salinity, acceptable," my doctor said. "Calm yourself, please, preparatory to withdrawal. Greater pain may result otherwise."

  "Ready automatic release," said my nurse.

  "Ready," said the table.

  My wrists, fresh-accessoried with blue-black bracelets, slipped loose of their bonds. My intruder slipped out as I rose. Glimpsing a red jewel newly adorning its chromed tip, I felt my throat bile over. As I dragged myself off the table I nearly collapsed, feeling physical agony as intense as my emotional pain, and would have tumbled groundward had I not caught myself. The room spun round me, as if to launch itself skyward with I, its fuse.

  "Smile," my nurse's voice said. "Your day awaits."

  "Madam still thinks mass movements undocilable, eh?" Leverett said; aiming a finger toward his temple he twirled it, and smiled. "Unreason's sleep breeds madness, poor thing. We'll calm the Elvii too, whatever she imagines. Regooding works in all areas of human endeavor, depending upon approach."

  Leverett, sixty-six, appeared fifty; he'd overseen Dryco's New Projects division since soon after century's turn. His suit looked as if he'd bought it the summer after graduation, and had slept in it every night since, though all knew he had them made to so impress; his hair was tousled artfully by one of many assistants who were appointed to come by and tousle it. Leverett's suit and hair were of like hue, though I couldn't immediately distinguish which had been dyed to match.

  "Marvelous weather," he said. Eyeing windowways I watched a waterspout kilometers distant take root in the harbor's gray field. Leverett's office was splendidly plain: its bleakness was enhanced by one desk, mismatched chairs, a stack of printout, a Harvard banner and portraits of his position's two predecessors. "Hairs the chest."

  "Undesirable," said John, leaning forward in his chair; as he shifted closer to Leverett's desk a flock of paper clips flew from their nest and rested on his shirtfront.

  "How'd they magnetize you?" Leverett asked as John plucked the clips loose. My husband, as did all in Security, had strips of Krylar dermally implanted across his torso, that missiles might be deflected without recoursing to bulky outerwear; Security once did all that was possible to stresslessen its workers in body and mind.

  "Passing side effect of morning's tests," John answered, "I'm told." I'd met my husband after clinicking; John's session had been no more enjoyable than mine. "Departure date solid yet?"

  "Wednesday next. Expectations must be mounting skyhigh, considering what lies ahead," Leverett said, smiling so unceasingly, if with more subtly evinced awareness, as Mister O'Malley's sister. "Travelready?"

  "We're hep, dad," I said, demonstrating the command I'd gained in properly wording those whom we might encounter. "Keen to lay rubber."

  Comprehending my rewordings without overmuch confusion, Leverett allowed his smile to broaden until his skull seemed set to drop from his jaw. "AO, Isabel. Clear as air," he said. "Plaintext English suffices here, needless to say. What necessaries remain, at present? So many tracks, my train gets lost sometimes."

  "Evening meet with Biggerstaff set for this eve," I said. "Course finals, Friday."

  "Fine, fine. Your teachers prepped to apple?" We nodded. "Couldn't have selected better than you two if we'd tried." Fisting one hand, he struck his other, rejoicing at the sound of skin hurting skin. "Oh, Godness. Superfluous to say where I'd go, if I wasn't essentialled here-"

  "Where?" John asked, employing Jakeish methods: inquiring of the obvious where no inquiry was expected, that unpracticed reactions might be studied, and appraised, and filed into memory for possible later use. "Where would you goy„

  "There. Over there," said Leverett, his smile unchanging. His simplest reaction impressed me as long-practiced and heartknown, if not heartfelt. I didn't dist
rust Leverett more or less than any for whom I worked, supposed co-believer of ours in God and Godness though he might be; John, of suspicious mind, forever reattuned to those around him, and so kept greater distance. Once I termed Leverett avuncular; John said he'd never allow him near children, whosever they were. "It's a dream mission, truly. Over there you'll see how we all could have gone."

  "I've concerns," said John.

  "Allow me to mentor," he said, his eyes dog-eager and as dark. "It's what I'm made for. No policy better than honesty. Detail deepest thoughts. What's felt?" I silenced, lipstill; by then numberless tests had come so unexpectedly, so often, that I considered at length the simplest inquiries. "Relax," he said. "No answer wrong here. What troubles?"

  "The polarization," John said. "Madam's disbelief unyields, yet with each meet your spiel intenses till we seem stopping short of reinventing wheels. The difference troubles overmuch."

  "Mister O'Malley approves full," said Leverett, reclining in his unpadded chair. "All have opinions, his matter most." He gestured toward the portrait of his male predecessor, a middleage man of unsettling look whose painted stare blistered whomever his eyes sighted. "Timeover there've been questions and qualms incompany over method and purpose. Mister Leibson always contraried if the betterment of the company demanded. Timeover he was proven right."

  "He was exed, nonetheless," John said. "Might history repeat?"

  "It was an interfamilial matter," said Leverett. "Mrs. Dryden. Mindaddled. You know the tales. A tragedy, nonetheless. My blessing, that I was mentored by one so great. Mister Liebson enabled Dryco to be what it became."

  Leverett's other predecessor was female, and named Joanna, or so worded the frame's inscription. Her face interested me more than Liebson's; her fear, unlike his, directed not out but in. Hers was a twentieth-century face, haloed with blond hair, staring with sleepless look, countenancing lightbright with unaccepted pain. She'd suicided as well, or so Leverett told; yet another mindaddled, he said.