TWENTY-SIX
The Mastermind is awed by his own power.
He didn’t expect it to feel like this.
Is it possible for God to amaze Himself?
Unequivocally: yes.
But he plays it cool. Aloof.
The recognition will come later. Or maybe it won’t. That depends on the mouse.
In the meantime, he plays the game and wears his mask.
He’s actually a good actor. The role of the concerned friend. The shocked utopeon. The interested scientist. The outraged citizen.
People play so many roles in their lives. Most of the fools stick with the part they were given, never even considering something greater.
The Mastermind is sickened by mankind’s predictability. A species should have some concern for its own evolution. Bacteria don’t get complacent. There are no fat and lazy fungi.
What began as tech and discovery has become too good for the human race. Pure science has been replaced by vendetta.
Yes, it is amusing. Why did God create life if not to be amused by death?
But now it is so much more than mere amusement.
Humanity needs a wake-up call.
It just got a big one.
And by the time the Mastermind is finished, there won’t be anyone left to wake up.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Like most BHVs, Yummi was a communist. Not in the political sense of opposing democracy or capitalism, but in the literal sense that she was part of a commune. The same urge to help others often lent itself to living with a like-minded group of people who shared the workload and ownership of everything within their community. In Yummi’s case, it was a parking farm called Eden.
“Fifteen men and fifteen women live there,” she said. Earlier she’d called ahead, and told them to prep the infirmary for our arrival. “We’re very discriminating on who we allow to join. They have to meet our high ideological and physical standards. The sex is fab. I’m bi, and so are the other girls. We swap partners all the time. I’m highly orgasmic, so it’s a perfect lifestyle for me.”
“I love you,” McGlade said. “I’ve never loved anyone more.”
We’d exited dissytown without anyone else trying to kill us, leaving McGlade’s bike chained to the fence, and eventually arrived at her building. It was multilevel parking garage, retrofitted for foliage farming.
“We sit on an acre of land, but we have nine floors, so we can harvest nine acres, eighteen if we include the vines on the ceilings. It’s mostly fruits and veggies. We only eat a small portion of it. The rest is donated to the dissys, or sold to the local supermarket.”
“Do you make enough to support yourselves?”
She snorted. “Of course not. Everyone in Eden is an SLP.”
“I have money,” McGlade said.
Yummi flipped her green hair back. “The infirmary is on the second floor.”
Instead of taking the stairs, we walked up the gradual incline. Like its biblical namesake, the garden was expansive and impressive. Plants of all types grew in a seemingly haphazard way, different species intermingling on every square inch of space. Even the pathways were clover.
“Looks natural, doesn’t it? Our horticulturalist, Barry, believes plants grow better when they compete with other species. So instead of having all the tomatoes, or watermelons, grouped together, we plant them in different locations.”
“It’s so pretty,” McGlade said. “Pretty pretty pretty.”
“Do you have any narcotic antagonists?” I asked.
“We have everything. It’s right through here.”
We veered off the path, heading for a door. I touched my head where my ear used to be. The bleeding had slowed to a trickle, but it still stung like crazy.
“We’ll fix you up,” Yummi said, giving me a pat on the ass. “Don’t worry.”
McGlade stopped walking. He was staring at a monarch butterfly, which had landed on his chest.
“Hello, little guy. Aren’t you beautiful?” He tried to pet the insect, and smeared it all over his shirt. Then he picked off a crumpled wing and released it into the air. “Go on. Fly free, little butterfly.”
I took McGlade under the arm and led him into the infirmary. The white room was a stark contrast to all the green outside. We sat McGlade up on one of the three examination tables, and a naked woman walked in.
“Awesome,” McGlade said.
Like Yummi, she also had dyed hair. Hers was pink. And like Yummi, her body was pretty close to being flawless. The two women gave each other a quick French kiss.
“Are these the two you mentioned earlier?” the new arrival asked, winking at me.
“Yes.” Yummi rubbed my shoulder. “And this is the one I told you about.”
“I’m Tasty,” the pinkette said, running her hand over her breast.
“I’ll bet you are,” McGlade said. “I have a butterfly. See?” He pointed to the spot on his shirt.
“Tasty, can you give that one some Narcon?” Yummi said.
“Opiate overdose?”
“Yes. Be ready with the sevo, too.”
“Sure. Can I do his arm?”
Yummi looked at me. “Tasty’s in school, studying for her MD. Is it okay if she works on your friend?”
“I’m sure he’d like that.”
“I love you, Tasty,” McGlade said. “I’ve never loved anyone more.”
Tasty handed McGlade a pill. He swallowed it, then asked, “What was that?”
“A narcotic antagonist. It reverses the effect of opiates.”
McGlade smiled; then his face contorted in agony. “FUCK! MY FUCKING ARM!”
Tasty slapped a gas mask to his face and turned on the sevoflurane. McGlade took a breath and then flopped over. Tasty secured his forehead, chest, and legs to the table, using straps.
Yummi put me on a table as well, and had me lie down.
“You don’t mind if I take this off, do you? In Eden, we all prefer going around naked.”
“If you insist.”
Yummi peeled off her latex outfit, looking as amazing as I’d expected her to look without clothes. She removed something from a drawer. I winced when I saw what it was. Living skin. I steeled myself, not willing to scream in front of two beautiful, naked women. But Yummi spared me any such indignity, giving my knuckles a spray of topical anesthetic before applying the skin.
“Take this,” she said, handing me a pill I didn’t recognize.
“What is it?”
“Anticoagulant. It will help with the reattachment. May I have your ear?”
I swallowed the pill and handed her my ear. She had me put my head down, applying more anesthetic. Then she picked up an eyedropper and a different type of living skin-one that was gel-based.
“You can’t move,” she said. “If I don’t get this right, your haircut will look crooked.”
“Well, we don’t want that.”
She put a strap over my forehead, and two more across my chest and legs, securing me to the examination table. I stayed perfectly still while she adjusted my ear. As the bacteria did their work, I felt my ear get hot. The
