“Get a nice nap?” Voltaire greeted me.
“No. Can I speak with you? Privately?”
“You may speak freely. This is my family and I have nothing to hide from them.”
They were watching me, curious to hear what I’d say. All of them had a venomous vitality about them that I knew could be triggered to tear me to pieces. I had to be careful how I responded. “I have a journalist friend who I was going to tell about the hair and Larry’s death. I can still do it. If you help me to reveal this to the world, we can tell everyone your story.”
Voltaire and company snickered. “You think we seek justice?” he asked.
“Don’t you?”
“You think we seek the pity of a public who never cared whether we lived or died? No one will care about our story. No one,” he emphasized. “It’ll just be news for a day to them that they wonder over, then forget.”
I approached closer. “I think it’ll be more than that. You have real hair. That’s one of the most significant discoveries in history. They can figure out what went wrong, and at the least, make sure any wrongs they’ve committed get righted.”
“Oh, the governments of the world have known for a long time what’s gone wrong.”
“They have?”
“Of course they have.”
“What was it?”
“Everything,” and they all laughed again like they were watching a comedy and their laughter cues were lit up.
I didn’t understand. Didn’t they want things to get rectified? This was their chance. They could spread the word about any wrongs done to them.
Voltaire gazed directly at me. “What do you think about the Mars expedition?”
“I don’t know. It seems really expensive, especially right now.”
“But it’s captivated the world, no?”
“I guess so.”
Voltaire laughed. “It’s all fake, a charade to amuse people.”
“What?”
“A few of my spies found the media and visual effects departments creating the show. Did you know they’re located in Vancouver, not Mars?”
Suddenly, I heard screaming. Behind me, several of the men brought forward an actor that I recognized all too well. It was Jesus Christ played by James Leyton. At least the beard and the hair matched.
“Is that—?”
“Indeed. I promised you a storm. And now I will deliver it. I’m going to kill everyone wearing a wig at the Global Entertainment Awards. Then, I’m going to take over the broadcast of the Global Entertainment Awards and kill Jesus on live TV.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Last time someone did it, they changed the world. Pontius Pilate created Christianity by crucifying Christ and revolutionized the course of mankind for over two millennia. Will it be any different this time around?”
10. Cycles
I.
All eyes were on the Global Entertainment Awards. At first, I’d hoped Voltaire had been exaggerating or posturing. But then, the murders began on live television. There were gunshots and bombs going off. Scalps were being sliced and tattoos were torn apart by guards with huge machetes. The strangest part was that the networks weren’t cutting away from the carnage even though people were gushing blood, limbs were sliced off, and famous celebrities were being mowed down. Whoever was in charge of the media kept the feed live, audiences still able to alter the camera angle, zooming in and out of angles they wanted to see. Some of the corpses received particular attention with ratings in a side column indicating which visual spheres were garnering the most views. The editing was so precise, it felt like I was watching a movie rather than real-life footage.
“You can’t do this,” I protested.
“Why not? Is their life more precious than ours?”
“They didn’t hurt you.”
“They fueled the trade that killed countless of my brothers and sisters. And now it’s our turn.”
“What will this achieve?”
“In our world, entertainment is the only reality. Even wars are filtered by men like you. Did you ever stop to think about the ramifications of your edits?” he asked me.
I’d edited out a lot of dead bodies and explosions. “No.”
He handed me my Pinlighter. “Record us.”
“What?”
“Don’t play the hypocrite,” Voltaire warned.
“He’s not God. He’s just an actor,” I protested.
“The public can’t tell the difference,” Voltaire answered. “Turn it on.”
When I hesitated, he lifted up his chopstick. I felt foolish being held up by a chopstick, but I knew what they could do and complied.
His brethren put on masks of the faceless goons. They held James Leyton securely in front of me. He’d been struggling at first. But as soon as my camera was on him, he composed himself. My signal got picked up by one of the computers on board, syncing them together.
James Leyton became Jesus on camera and had a solemn gesture on his face as he pronounced, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.”
“Oh we know alright,” one of them declared, prominently showing off the brand logo of Zhang Zhang on his arm.
They took off Leyton’s wig and started cutting off his scalp. Even though I didn’t like the show and had never bothered watching an episode, I couldn’t help but shudder at the sacrilege and the mockery of it all. The actor remained tranquil, or at least clung to it until the pain became overbearing. At first, it was a discomfiting gesture, followed by clenched brows. Within a few seconds, he was howling, unable to control himself. Blood had splattered everywhere and as the screaming intensified, he shouted, “Father! Into your hands I commit my spirit.” A knife was thrust through his mouth to silence him for eternity.
I shut off the camera, wanting to delete the memory from my head.
Voltaire put his arm on my shoulder.
“Now we take care of another impostor.”
They brought the fake Larry in. I dropped the camera and refused to film, rushing back to my room. I couldn’t watch Larry be killed twice, even if this one wasn’t real. A minute later, there was a chime on my door. I ignored it, but it rang multiple times.
“What do you want?!” I asked.
The door slid open and it was Beauvoir. “You shouldn’t let it bother you so much,” she said.
“It’s a massacre!” I answered.
“It’s a political statement,” she replied. “Voltaire is the oldest of us and has seen the worst of it. He knows what he’s doing.”
“Murdering people on live television?”
“That’s what we’ve been driven to. It’s the only way to get people to take notice. Do you know what happened to that man who tried to enslave you at the cricket races?”
“No.”
“He’s in a coma because he suffered too much brain trauma during your match. He might as well be dead. Do you regret what you did?” she asked.
“Different situation.”
“How?”
“That was for my survival. What did Jesus ever do to you?”
She smiled and said to me, “I wondered after you. You were so beat up when I first met you. Cricket matches don’t suit you.”
I took a deep breath and kept my eyes away from her. “How is Tolstoy?”
“Good. Busy. He has lots to do in Gamble Town.”
“This is twice you saved my life.”
“What do you mean?”
“They were going to cut me up if you hadn’t sent Voltaire.”
“I couldn’t just let them kill you.”