He had no idea what to do. If he showed himself to the woman then he would just be torturing her, further feeding into the religious aspects of her dementia. On the other hand, she already knew he was here. Alcatraz must have given himself away.
Now you decide to visit your mother? He was more than a little pissed off. Maybe torturing her had been the point. Maybe this was payback.
C’mon Alcatraz, you’re better than this, Prophet thought. He wasn’t sure if the distant answering howls of rage were his imagination or not.
‘Son?’ she asked.
Shit.
‘Mom?’ Prophet found himself whispering.
Where the fuck had that come from?
The madness was gone from her eyes. He saw only what you were supposed to see in a mother’s eyes — unconditional love.
The lensing field collapsed as it ran out of energy. How long was I stood there for? How long was she raving at the invisible ghost in her room? He glanced down at her wrists and ankles, which had been rubbed raw and bloody by the restraints. This must be more than Alzheimer’s, he decided. There was an aspect of religious mania to whatever was wrong with her.
She looked up at near-enough six and a half feet of armoured-carbon nanomyfibrils with recognition and love in her eyes.
Then, with a sinking sensation, he watched her face harden.
‘You’re not my son,’ she said, her voice laced with venom and suspicion. Was he supposed to say something, Prophet wondered? ‘Who are you!? Where’s my son?’
I’m the ghost possessing your son’s corpse. He died fighting aliens.
‘He was a good boy.’ She wasn’t looking at him now. ‘Oh, he did wild things. Some days I thought there was the devil in him, but I knew, deep down, he was a good boy. He serves his God and his country, you know?’ she said with pride, and then looked up at him, eyes narrowing with suspicion.
‘Ma’am.’ What are you doing, Prophet? he demanded of himself. ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news.’ Her eyes were shining with tears now. It was the start of the conversation that all family members of soldiers dreaded, and she knew it. Some part of her, the lucid part, would have been expecting it ever since her son had joined the Marine Corps. ‘Your son was killed in action. In New York.’ New York, Prophet thought, we weren’t supposed to die in New York. We were supposed to die in places like Iraq, Columbia, Afghanistan, Sri Lanka, Lingshan. Foreign places, exotic places, not the Big Apple. ‘He fought hard, he died bravely. He was a credit to his fellow marines, the Corps itself and his country,’ he finished meekly. He could hear the hollowness of the platitudes in his own words.
‘It was the violence, wasn’t it? And the drugs they gave you. And fallen women. They follow soldiers like flies to excrement. And the drink, all your friends would want you to drink with them. You were always such a popular boy. Is that how it got in?’
Now he was her son again, it seemed. Prophet told himself that he just needed to leave. This was accomplishing nothing. Suddenly she looked up at him again. The madness was back in her eyes again, stronger than ever. Righteous hatred was written across her severe features.
‘Was that how the demons entered your flesh? They try and put them in my body, with the needles and the pills, but my faith is strong. God and his angels watch over the righteous. They protect their own. I saw the devils on the net in the common room. They were walking the streets of Sodom-on-the-Hudson! Bold as brass! Hell has boiled up like a blister and burst in the streets of New York!’ She was thrashing around in the bed like a woman possessed. Her arms and her ankles were bleeding. Spittle flecked her mouth and chin. ‘I know what you are, demon! Get out of my son’s body!’
She was praying. Screaming her exhortations to God, trying to cast the possessing demon out of her son’s body, when the orderlies arrived to sedate her. Prophet bent light around himself. It wasn’t difficult to sneak out of the room.
The daughter had seen an angel. The mother had seen a demon. Prophet guessed that the daughter had more hope. He was worried that the mother was closer to the truth.
What do you want from me? Prophet demanded. But the Green-Eyed Man was nowhere to be seen.
The pain in his skull was so extreme that he was staggering. He had only just managed to get out of the hospital without being detected. He sank to his knees. This couldn’t go on. He had no idea where he was or what he was doing half the time. Sooner or later he was going to get seen and caught. By the local authorities if he was lucky, by CELL if he wasn’t.
He was beginning to think that Rasch was right, that they were the only ones who could help him. He just didn’t think they would. The mission was nowhere. If this continued then all he was doing was trying to avoid the inevitable when he was lucid and in control and rushing toward it when he wasn’t.
White light. Agony. The pavement was rushing up to meet him but he blacked out before it reached him.
Somehow he knew he was moving. He was being just stealthy enough to avoid being seen by civilians and police. It wasn’t like he was trying to hide from military contractors or hostile aliens. If he was to remain fused to this suit, which was now synonymous with remaining alive, then this was just a stroll for him. This level of sneaking about would become his life until he got careless, got caught and got dead.
Except Prophet knew he was just a passenger now.
‘I think we need to talk.’
Prophet opened his eyes. The Green-Eyed Man was sat opposite him. They were both sat at a simple table in an otherwise empty room with bare walls. The day outside the window looked grey and bleak. The landscape beyond the glass was featureless.
‘Is this real?’ Prophet asked.
The Green-Eyed Man pointed at him. ‘I want my body back.’
‘You’re dead.’
‘Which makes us equal. I watched you put a bullet in your own head, except the dead flesh you’re possessing came with my mind when I was born. Not yours.’
Prophet wanted to smile. The kid was cocky but he thought he wouldn’t have minded having him under his command. The smile went away as he remembered just how many people had died under his command. That was a whole different set of ghosts.
‘What is this? Where are we?’
The Green-Eyed Man frowned. ‘I think you’re changing the subject.’
Prophet noticed that he wasn’t wearing the armour anymore. He was in dress fatigues that he hadn’t worn in years.
‘Just because you outrank me doesn’t give you the right to take my body.’
‘There is no right here. There’s just what happened, and there’s dealing with it.’
‘You could let go, old man.’
‘So could you.’
‘It’s my fucking body!’ The Green-Eyed Man lunged across the table and grabbed Prophet by the lapels of his dress uniform. Prophet didn’t move. Instead he took the time to stare deep into the other man’s eyes. Taking stock of him, measuring and, if he was honest, judging him.
‘I don’t know where we are, but do you think this will help?’ Prophet asked quietly. Alcatraz slumped back into his seat, calmer. He looked fatigued. I guess haunting someone really takes it out of you, Prophet thought. The Green-Eyed Man looked up at him.
‘I’m not haunting you. I’m haunting my body.’
‘Is that what you are? A ghost?’
‘Maybe. Or a partially erased program, or information given form by the suit’s systems. Or maybe I’m just you having a breakdown. Ever consider that? What about you? What do you think you are?’