13

The Brides of Elvis

(Sunday: 12:55 A.M.)

Macy was awakened by the distant rumble of what sounded like thunder.

She had fallen asleep again on the floor of the abandoned apartment, dozing off in front of the wall-screen as she had off and on throughout the hours since she had found sanctuary in the littered, unfurnished condo. The rumble subsided, and her first inclination was to ignore the sound and fall back to sleep, until she heard another, quieter sound: the soft patter of rain falling just outside the door.

Macy sat up slowly, taking care not to twist her sprained ankle, then crawled on her hands and knees over the coarse carpet to the window. The utilitarian drapes were drawn; she pushed aside a corner to gaze out into the courtyard between the block-like buildings of the apartment complex.

Rain fell in a long, silvery drizzle against the light cast by the lampposts in the courtyard, forming puddles on the pavement and running in fast little creeks to the sewer grates. Macy stared in wonderment at the rain. She had been told that it rained in the biosphere, but she hadn’t really believed it—a rainstorm in outer space …

She let the drape close, and lay back against the windowsill. The only light in the room came from the wall-screen. The movie she had been watching had ended and now a late-night newsfeed from some station in Atlanta was on the screen. A thin young Asian newscaster was reading the headlines: the President was promising economic aid to South Africa after its fifth change of government in about as many decades; the joint U.S.-Soviet Mars exploration team had uncovered new alien relics in the Cydonia region; the British Navy’s new frigate, the HMS Thatcher, had caught fire during sea trials in the North Atlantic; a New York publishing house had signed a $1.25 million contract with MIT’s Artificial Intelligence Laboratory for rights to a mystery novel written by one its computers; a household robot in San Diego was about to stand trial on manslaughter charges in the death of a seven-year-old girl. Macy watched apathetically. None of it meant anything to her.

Then a commercial came on. A close-up of the profile of a young, pretty woman, looking longingly ahead. A voice-over, presumably her thoughts: It’s been such a long time since I’ve gotten away from the office.… They tell me it’s a lovely place. The camera backs up, passing her husband sitting in the adjacent seat, to pan past the rows of quiet, comfortable passengers sipping quiet, comfortable-looking drinks from squeeze bottles. Sure, it’s expensive … but Arthur deserves the best, doesn’t he?… and I could use this break from the business. The camera moves down an aisle, past floating stewards and fades through a forward door into a cockpit, where handsome and competent pilots work behind consoles filled with gleaming lights. And it’s not the same as going to Brazil or Tahiti, one of those places.… Finally, the camera moves through the cockpit windows, out into the starry depths of space. Clarke County is seen in the extreme distance, then the camera swings briefly back to pan across the approaching spacecraft, before resting on the distant, receding crescent of Earth. I mean, we all deserve a little adventure now and then, don’t we? The TexSpace logo appears on the screen; then the streamlined words “CLARKE COUNTY … SPACE” are superimposed over the planet. A soft, masculine voice replaces the woman’s: TexSpace to Clarke County. For the sophisticated traveler.

“Bullshit,” Macy muttered. “This place is a dump.”

She had no idea who the apartment’s former occupant had been, although a few discarded hygiene items hinted that it was probably a woman. Actually, the apartment was not all that bad, although Macy had been in bathrooms and closets which were larger. The former tenant had taken all of his or her furniture when he or she had left—not too long ago, Macy figured—since the electricity was still on, the water still ran, and there was a roll of toilet paper and a bar of soap in the bathroom.

Yesterday Macy had sprained her right ankle when she had jumped from her hotel suite’s balcony; she had not been able to hobble very far, and it was simply dumb luck that when she had wandered into the chock-a-block apartment complex, she had found the door to Unit 37 standing open. Macy knew an abandoned apartment when she saw one. Since she had no other immediate alternatives, and since she was certain that a Salvatore hit man was on her trail, the young woman fled into the apartment and locked the door behind her.

She had been hiding here all day, and it was beginning to drive her crazy. The refrigerator had contained a couple of cans of Seven-Up, half a tin of Vienna sausage, and a few stale slices of bread. She had eaten everything a few hours before, and now she was hungry again. The apartment was as littered as only an untenanted housing unit could be, which irritated her high-class instincts. During the evening, noise had filtered in through the walls and the ceiling: the thudding roar of Japanese hard-rock from the unit above, a guy in the unit to the right who threw temper tantrums for no discernible reason, a constantly screaming baby in the unit to the left.

Macy was beginning to wonder which was worse: having a killer searching for her, or remaining in this toilet for one more minute. Somehow she’d managed, she thought wryly, to end up in what was probably Clarke County’s only slum.

The distant thunder, or whatever the noise had been, seemed to have aroused her ill-tempered neighbor. As she lay against the window, she could dimly hear him screaming through the walls.… “Goddamn space colony!” Crash! “Goddamn fucking tourists!” Whamm!

Something snapped inside of her. She leaped off the floor—ignoring the pain shooting through her ankle—and pounded with both fists against the wall. “Goddamn space colony yourself!” she screamed at the top of her lungs.

Remarkably, the maniac in the next apartment shut up after that. Macy’s tantrum had at least done that, but it also uncorked some pent-up emotions. She fell back onto the couch, curled up into a ball, and began to cry.

After a few minutes she wiped the last of the tears from her eyes, got up—more carefully this time, favoring her sprained ankle—walked to the door and unlatched it. She didn’t care if the hit man was standing right outside; she had to get some fresh air.

The night was warm and wet. It was delightfully weird to be in a rainstorm in space; the drizzle helped soothe her nerves. Macy walked out into the courtyard and gazed up at the immense bowl of Clarke County’s sky. Through a fleeting break in the thin, dark cloud layer, she could see the distant, bright grid-work of Big Sky’s town center. There was something that seemed to be glowing brightly up there, flickering as if it were burning … then it was gone, lost in the rain shower. She could hear the river gurgling nearby, but little else. In the early hours of Monday morning, nearly everyone in the colony was asleep.

It was a deceptive peace. Macy knew that she was still on the run. Someone had followed her to Clarke County; she wasn’t safe until she got off the colony, or found somewhere else to hide. She was hungry; even though she had thousands of dollars in cash, she could not easily visit a restaurant. She didn’t even dare go to a drugstore to buy a painkiller and a bandage for her ankle.

You’ve got to come up with something, Macy thought, slowly limping through the wet courtyard. There’s got to be a way out of this mess. You’ve got enough dough on you to practically buy a shuttle. Girl, you ought to be smart enough to figure a way …

“Hello?” A woman’s voice, behind her, spoke timidly. “Excuse me?”

Macy was startled, but didn’t show it as she turned around. A young woman, about her own age, was walking towards her. “Excuse me?” Macy replied.

The woman walked closer, stepping into the light, and Macy saw that underneath a hooded nylon jacket she was wearing a white T-shirt with “Elvis Lives!” silk-screened on the front. She was carrying a moist stack of brochures under her arm. “Are you lost?” she said, smiling.

“No,” Macy replied.

The smile remained plastered on the woman’s face like a mask. “Many are lost and don’t even know it,” she said airily. “Sometimes people wake up in the middle of the night, you know, in their own homes, in the comfort of their own beds, and they suddenly come to the realization that, even there, they’re lost. I think you may be lost. You’re looking for a direction, aren’t you?”

A loon, Macy thought. I wonder what’s she’s selling? It didn’t matter. It was the first friendly voice she had heard in several days. Out of curiosity, she decided to play along.

“Maybe,” Macy cautiously answered. “What kind of direction are you offering?”

There was an unhealthy light in the woman’s eyes as she spoke. “The company of brothers and sisters who have found the way. A fellowship who has recognized a divine presence among us. The return of a holy prophet. A twentieth-century saint reincarnated in the twenty-first century.…”

She reached into the stack of brochures, pulled one out and handed it to Macy. “He wants you to join us.… What is your name, if I may ask?”

“Mary,” Macy automatically replied, taking the brochure. On the cover was a hologram of Elvis Parker, resplendent in a white suit, surrounded by a halo of light which shifted prettily as she moved the picture. “The King Has Returned!” shouted red letters below the hologram.

“I’m Donna,” the woman said solemnly. “Mary, Elvis has a plan for your life. He has come here, to Clarke County, to spread his mission. In his previous incarnation, in the last century, he was able to heal with the touch of his hands, to move clouds by willpower alone, to bestow wealth and power upon his followers. He has returned in this time, reincarnated in the flesh of another, to collect new disciples.…”

“Is he here?” Macy asked, pointing at the hologram. “Here, in the colony?”

“Yes!” Donna responded ecstatically. “Elvis is here! He wants you to come see him when he makes his appearance Monday night at the stadium.” She paused, then reluctantly added, as if embarrassed to be mentioning such secular trivialities, “It’s free of charge, of course.”

“Yes, of course,” Macy murmured. Something was beginning to occur to her. “Are there … uh, other disciples here? Are there many other followers with, um, Elvis?”

“Why, of course!” Donna gushed. She seemed thrilled that someone was taking her seriously. Macy idly wondered how many times tonight this true devotee of Elvis had been told to fuck off. “He always travels with his friends. His reincarnation is a balance between his Dark and Good selves, and he needs us—all of us—to win his constant inner battle against temptation, for when he wins, we all win against the forces of Evil.…”

Unnoticed, the rain stopped. Donna blathered on for a few minutes, espousing a bizarre dogma which sought to bridge rock history and Biblical prophecy. Although Macy kept her eyes on her and nodded her head when it seemed appropriate, she barely listened. It was a twisted idea, but perhaps if she could hide within the ranks of these fanatics …

“I … believe what you’re saying, Donna,” Macy said, interrupting her screed. She hoped she put enough sincerity in her voice to carry the act. Instantly, Donna’s mouth opened wide and she stared earnestly at Macy. “In fact,” she continued, “I don’t want to wait till Monday.”

“Really?” Donna gasped.

“Truly,” Macy said. She shook her head like a sinner in a confessional. “I’ve been lost, so lost … but I think I’ve seen the light. Oh, Donna, Donna … you must help me.”

“Anything, Mary! Anything at all!”

“I … I don’t want to wait!” Macy grabbed Donna’s hands and fell to her knees. “Please! Take me to Elvis! I need to meet him, to join the path of the righteous!”

“Absolutely!” Donna cried. Macy was relieved. She was afraid she had been laying it on too thick. Apparently, though, this cult placed a high premium on discovering new converts. “We’ll go now!”

Macy stood up. “Let me go back to my apartment and … oh, gather just a few things. You can take me to him tonight, can’t you?”

“Of course I can, Mary. If he can’t see you tonight, you can stay in our company, among the faithful. Oh, Mary!”

Macy turned and started leading Donna the Dingbat toward the housing unit. Donna insisted on holding her hand. “You’ll not be sorry for this, Mary,” she said as they walked through the courtyard.

Hell, I hope not, Macy replied silently.