The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August(72)

I considered the implications, not for my own life–the threat against that was suddenly very clear–but for Vincent. He was younger than me, born later in the century, and therefore the idea that he could somehow be a threat to me, prevent me even being born, was impossible, unless he had assistance. Someone of an older generation, someone who would be alive in 1919, ready to poison my mother before I could be created. An ally in the Cronus Club? A collaborator in his dream, as I could no longer be?

He watched me, no doubt following the direction of my thoughts, then added, “I would rather not take the information by force, Harry. But if I must, I must.”

A snap back to the present, focus on reality. “You’ll torture me?” I asked. No point dancing around the words, and I was mildly pleased to see him flinch at the idea. Less pleased to see how readily he accepted it.

“Yes, if I must. Please don’t make me.”

“I’m not making you, Vincent; the decision is entirely yours. I’d like just to clear myself of any moral responsibility for that particular act before you do it.”

“You know everyone breaks, Harry. Everyone.”

A memory. Franklin Phearson, sobbing at his feet. Everyone breaks, and that was the truth of it. I would break as well. I would give up my point of origin.

Or I would lie and die.

“What will it be?” I asked airily and was surprised by the giddy lightness of my words. Recollections of Phearson tumbled beneath my thoughts like a quiet sea pulling back for the tsunami, and I rolled along with the waters, no longer in charge. “Are you thinking chemical? I should warn you, they tried antipsychotics on me before and it produces some unlikely effects. Psychological? No, probably not psychological. If I have only sixty or so days before my body is too weak to survive, and while I hate to overestimate my own mental fortitude, time is your enemy. Electrical would be best, but runs a risk to the heart–you do know about my heart, don’t you? Extreme cold, perhaps. Or extreme heat? Or a mixture of both. Sleep deprivation as standard but then again—”

“Stop it, Harry.”

“I’m just going through the process for you.”

He managed to meet my eyes, and I found it easy to meet his. I’d never seen him beg before.

(I’m a f*cking good guy, Harry! I’m a f*cking defender of democracy!) “Just tell me, Harry. Tell me when you’re born and this won’t have to get any worse.”

(Christ, I’m not that guy, I’m just not, but you gotta understand, this is bigger than you or me.) “I hope you don’t mind if I again query your use of the phrase ‘have to’.” I didn’t know who spoke but it sounded like me, albeit a little drunk. “You are under no compulsion to do any of this to me. It’s an entirely voluntary action on your part.”

“Everybody breaks, Harry.”

“I know. But you can’t afford to see how long it takes me, can you? So come on, Vincent,” I relished his English name, rolled it round my tongue. “You’d better get started.”

He hesitated, just a moment, then the begging was gone.

His eyes tightened.

(Make a difference, damn it! Make a difference!) Franklin Phearson’s voice in my ear. Once upon a time he’d made the pain go away and stroked my hair, and I’d loved him for it like a child loves a long-lost mother, and I’d been broken and he’d been right. In his own inestimable, pointless way, he’d been right, and I’d died and that world, to me, might never have been if memory didn’t make it so.

With a half-shake of his head, Vincent stood to go.

“Not going to do it yourself?” I called after him. “Whatever happened to moral responsibility?”

“Think about it for a day,” he replied. “Just a day.”

And he left.





Chapter 56


One day.

One day to avoid a fate far, far worse than death.

One day in a padded suit strapped to a padded chair in a padded room.

Look for the flaws in the system, any flaw, no matter what.

Chair bolted to the floor, IV drip feeding me the nutrients I would naturally refuse to take. Padded door, guards outside. They were the weakest link. Vincent, in refusing to participate in what would happen next, had left the process open and exposed to manipulation. I had no doubt that he’d ordered the guards not to speak to me, but sometimes even an under-rewarded soldier of the USSR has to take the initiative.

I tugged and writhed against the needle in my hand until at last I managed to pull it free, lacerating the skin across the top of my hand in a great jagged red stripe. I didn’t call out, didn’t say anything, but let the blood run in great crimson stains over the white padded floor, infusing the cloth with glorious technicolour. The strap across my skull made it impossible for my head to hang, but I closed my eyes and waited with what I hoped was my greatest faraway look. It took the guards shamefully long to check on me and see the blood still dribbling down the chair. They burst in at once, and then an embarrassing conversation took place as to what they should do, and whether to get help.

“Is he unconscious?” asked one. “How much blood has he lost?”

The elder and, I hoped, the senior, inspected my hand. “It’s a surface wound,” he exclaimed. “He’s pulled out the needle.”