| "ANGEL'S TONGUE ON MARS" CONTINUED |
They dinner at Rock City; he has lamb, rice and Brussels sprouts, all synthetic; she, a seafood
fettuccine alfredo, also synth. After coffee they walk to the tip of the pier and watch the sundown
create a spectacular orange hue wash across the horizon.
"These shoes are murder," Connie says, slipping off her high heels into stocking feet. "I'm
beginning to wonder if the company that makes these has something against me."
"Think of it as paying penance for your sins. The minor ones," Neil replies with a smile.
"It doesn't feel like the minor ones," Connie says.
Resting on the wooden railing of the pier, Neil says to her, "We've been lucky with this weather.
It'll change at any moment." He motions to the sky and says, "Every day of this is a bonus."
"This weather is a blessing. Neil, do you ever think about a supreme being?"
"You mean like god?"
"Well maybe not the supreme being. It could be god, I suppose. Everything is a part of god. It
certainly has god-like powers. But I don't know if it is the ultimate god of gods."
"What's on your mind, Connie?"
"When I was in my thirties I started to see there's more to our existence here that just me and the
things I interact with, the people and things we can see and touch and feel."
"Go on..."
"This thing that is a part of everything we do, I've become very aware of it. It's here with us right
now. As I talk to you it's between us, we both interact with it and it with us as we communicate. It
sees everything I see through my eyes, experiences everything I do."
"You've really thought about this."
"Yes I have. It lives with me and within me."
"Like a parasite."
"God, Neil, only you could twist it that way. No, it's not a parasite." Casting the idea Connie is
describing with such a connotation strikes her as very wrong. "It's not a leech or a bug."
"Does it give you anything in return for the experiences you provide it? Payment of some kind? Or
is just a squatter freeloading off you?"
"Through it I can put my thoughts into the minds of others."
"That could be useful in persuading a customer to buy a condo," he answers flippantly.
"I can't actually make people do things. They still have free will. But I can nudge them along, in
one direction or another. But I would never do anything immoral like that, it wouldn't be right. It's
like I have a microphone with a cable attached to a tiny speaker in a person's head."
"How do you know? How can you know what the other person hears, how they feel it? How do
you know any of what you say is true? What proof can you provide?"
"None. I haven't compiled hard scientific evidence. I have condos to sell."
"How come I can't hear you in my head?"
"I'm in there, you just haven't dialled in my voice yet."
"Let's try something, an experiment. I want you to think of something, a word or a phrase, and I'll
see if I can hear what you're thinking of in my mind. Okay?"
"Okay. I have a phrase. I'm thinking it now."
Neil stares into Connie's eyes fixatedly, listening for some voice, Connie's voice, to turn on and say
something within the confines of his skull. But he hears nothing, just the sound of a congregation of
seagulls squawking in the sky behind him and the waves washing onto the sandy shore. After a
minute he gives up.
Neil shakes his head, "No, it didn't work. I can't hear anything. What phrase were you thinking of?"
Just then, before Connie can answer, two elderly people, a man and a woman, walk past them. The
white-haired couple smile at Neil and Connie and the old man says warmly, "Lovely Indian summer
we're having this year, isn't it?"
The old man winks and the elderly couple walk on. Connie looks to Neil and says, "That one."
"That one what?" Neil asks.
"That was the phrase I was thinking of: Indian summer."
"Oh come on. You expect me to believe that that man heard you in his head and that's why he said
'Indian summer'?"
"You don't have to. That's your choice. Coincidences like that happen to me all the time."
"You really believe you can communicate with others this way?"
"Yes. I sense it to be so. And they have told me."
"Who has told you?"
Connie shrugs. "People tell me. Not explicitly but indirectly. It has told me as well."
"It?"
"Neil, I can communicate with it."
"With it. With the entity? Really? How do you do that?"
"By talking to it. It speaks to me in my mind. Gives me answers to my questions. Shows me the
answers to my questions with signs, sometimes before I've even asked it anything. I started
noticing, realizing, that certain thoughts I had weren't actually mine, they were the thoughts of
something trying to speak to me. It likes to play games, like with riddles or codes for me to figure
out. For instance it will show me that today the answers I get to my questions are antonyms, the
truth will actually be the opposite of the answer it gives me."
"Have you ever thought that maybe you're suffering from a mental illness?"
"Like schizophrenia? Just because you talk to something with your mind doesn't mean you're
mentally ill. It's not a mental illness if you're psychic. It's communication."
Connie slips her shoes back on and starts walking slowly back towards shore. Neil follows her
silently, thinking. Then he asks, "Do you wonder if there are others like you, with a similar power,
the power to tap into this thing?"
"There is another, yes. A man with a loud and powerful mind. A mind with feelers like the
tentacles of a giant octopus that can extend anywhere. I feel him from time to time, it comes and
goes."
"Just one other person?"
"No, others too. But he's the strongest. I feel his presence most strongly in the night, his legato
rhythm as he makes love to his women."
"Legato?"
"It means smoothly, slowly...sensuously."
"I know what it means," Neil says curtly. "If you can feel him then does that mean he can feel
you?"
"Depending upon his level of awareness, yes, I imagine so."
"If what you say is true, there could be great potential for getting things done, your way, ambition
providing the only limitation."
"I don't think of it that way, Neil."
The two of them slowly walk back in the direction of Connie's place. As they approach her
apartment complex Neil can't see his electrocar, the parking space on the street where he left it now
vacant. It hits him, his electrocar isn't there.
"That's great, my electrocar's gone," Neil tells Connie, pointing to the empty slot on the side of the
road. "I parked it right there. It was there when we left. It's been stolen."
"Are you sure you parked it there?"
"Yes, I'm sure."
"You can file a report from my place. I guess that means you're staying the night?"
The next day it starts to rain and doesn't stop for eight years. Neil didn't expect to see the electrocar
again, sure it had been torn to pieces for parts or been dumped and abandoned down some deserted
dirt road. He had already braced himself for the expense of a new one when he got a call from
Corrector Order Enforcement a day later telling him his electrocar had been recovered, intact, and
was waiting for pickup at an impound lot. Good thing he hadn't bought a new one yet. He was
using public transportation till he decided which vehicle to purchase. Now that worry was gone. All
he had to do was pay the towing and overnight storage expense and he had his wheels back. Simple
as that. The police failed to mention two things, though. One: He had to fill up the empty fuel cell.
And two: His electrocar had been fitted with a surveillance chip allowing it to be positioned, pinged
and located anywhere. And the surveillance chip contained an ultra-sensitive receiver, so sensitive
in fact that not only was it capable of monitoring all audio within the vehicle, it could pick up beta
rhythm brain-wave signals as well. In other words, any communication within the electrocar,
whether spoken or thought, could be transmitted to a recording device.
The impound lot is at Fraser Highway and 160th in Surrey. Connie drives Neil to the lot. I'm off to
the supermarket to buy the ingredients for a surprise for dinner, she tells him. He pays the attendant
who gives him directions where to find his electrocar amid the hundreds of other electrocars in the
expansive field of metal and rubber. As he searches, he begins noticing an intermittent clicking
sound, like the sound heard when an electrocar engine cools, coming from each derelict vehicle he
walks past, as though alerting him that he's being tracked by a heat ray from above. Neil forgets all
about it when he spots his electrocar. Getting in, he sits down and inserts the key in the ignition.
The vehicle starts up just like new. Kind of surprises him a little. The correctors weren't able to tell
him anything about what had happened to his electrocar, only that it had been found and identified,
so he wasn't sure what shape it would be in or if it would still be in running order when he picked it
up. But it is, so he pulls out of the yard and looks for a charger station and turns on the radio. All
of his pre-set stations have been washed from the memory so he tunes in his favourite oldies station.
A love song sung by a female singer comes to a crescendo and ends.
I wish I could have heard that one, I love that song, Neil thinks gaily. What was that song called?
he wonders. He turns up the radio, hoping the DJ will say the name of the tune.
"Well, Neil, if you really want to know," says the silky-smooth voice of the female announcer, "the
name of that song is 'We've Only Just Begun' by The Carpenters."
Huh? Did I really just hear my name mentioned on the radio?
"Yes, you did," says the DJ. "And here's another song I just know you're gonna love."
Bewildered, Neil hits the scan button and the jangling, frenzied opening chords of a Beatles ditty are
chopped off, the radio frequency sliding automatically up the band. He stops it when it gets to the
government news station. A business report is announcing the day's closing prices of the
commodities gold, electricity and oil. The business reporter hands off to another anchor who says,
"Now for today's top news stories. Neil Jaggard has recovered his vehicle from the impound lot in
Fleetwood in Surrey and is travelling north on the King George Highway. In other news, businesses
and residents of the downtown eastside still in the dark due to a massive power blackout could have
their power restored within forty-eight hours. Electricity rationing will continue in other parts of the
lower mainland until further notice..."
Could they - could they be talking about me? Have they finally caught up with me?
The announcer interrupts his news report and soberly says, "Yes, Mr. Jaggard, we are talking about
you." The reporter then continues on with the electricity crisis story.
An uneasy feeling of cold fear grabs hold of him. A new kind of fear he's never felt before; it twists
and screws into his guts and into the core of his brain. His mouth becomes cotton-dry, his tongue
sticking to his gums. A part of Neil always felt that it was just a matter of time before the delicious
freedom he enjoyed would run out, his writing was sure to get him noticed. He knows he's being
monitored and whoever is doing the monitoring seems to want him to know. And why not? Once
they've clamped onto you there's nothing you or anyone can do to stop them. He'd heard of things
like this happening to people the government didn't like. He also remembers what Ganis Cramb told
him and Connie about the media being used for purposes other than straight information and
entertainment dissemination.
He switches the radio off and, his hands gripping the steering wheel, scans the side of the highway
for a charger station. He locates one and pulls into the bay. He gets out and begins charging up the
fuel cell with electricity. He nervously takes a look around. There are two other patrons charging
up the batteries in their electrocars. Both of the customers, men dressed in black suits, are watching
him, staring straight at him.
What are you looking at? Never seen a guy charge up his fuel cell before? Neil unplugs the charger
and puts it back on the pump, gets back in his electrocar and pulls out onto the highway. Driving
along, his vision veers towards the licence plates of the other vehicles surrounding him on the road.
The letters on the licence plates of seven electrocars that pass him in succession say U R IN DGR
YU MST HDE. The plates contain coded messages being relayed to me, Neil realizes. He takes
the letters to say You Are In Danger, You Must Hide. He can't take his eyes off the licence plates
of the electrocars around him. TE WR IZ NT DC LRD BT IT IZ ON. The War Is Not Declared
But It Is On Neil interprets.
Connie is preparing her special seafood chowder in her kitchen. Synth clams and muscles and
scallops are scattered on a wood cutting board and she's slicing up a cut of halibut, the gooey, white
flesh in her left hand, the knife in her right. The phone rings the double ring of a visitor's arrival.
Trying not to get the sticky goo on the telephone, Connie holds the handset with the palm of her
hand and pushes the code on the keypad with her thumb, opening the front door twelve floors
downstairs, letting Neil in. A minute later Neil bursts through the door of Connie's condo.
"Constance, I'm under surveillance by somebody! I'm being watched!"
Still cutting the fish into tender cubes, her back to Neil, she asks, "What makes you think that?"
"I'm being relayed information via the radio," he says, panicked. "They're indicating they know
precisely what I'm doing and where I am."
Connie stops chopping and rests her hands on the corner of the counter and looks back over her left
shoulder.
"They've got a mindtap on me, they can hear what I'm thinking," Neil goes on. "They're
responding to my thoughts. I didn't know they could do that. And I'm getting messages relayed to
me from the licence plates of other vehicles on the road."
Connie puts down the knife and wipes her hands up and down on the apron she's wearing. She
turns, walks over to Neil, rests her arms on his collarbones and, being about six inches shorter than
him, looks up at him sweetly.
"What kind of a greeting is that? Don't you even say 'hi' to me any more when you show up?"
Connie closes her eyes and kisses him on the lips then pulls her face back from him. "Messages
from vehicle license plates?" she asks with raised eyebrows.
Neil takes a breath, collects himself, thinks about it for a moment and says, "I'm sorry. That was
rude of me, wasn't it? It's the anxiety. I needed to tell someone."
"Yes it was rude," Connie says, nodding in agreement. She walks back to the kitchen counter and
starts chopping again. "I'm making your favourite, seafood chowder."
"That's great, Connie. I haven't eaten anything all day. I need food to get my blood sugar
balanced."
"If they, whoever it is you think might be keeping an eye on you, are really doing this then they
would know you're here with me, right?"
"Yes, I suppose they would."
"Well, you're safe here. Who would want to keep tabs on you? And for what reason?"
"Something to do with my political stance, my views, my way of thinking."
"You really think you're that important? Come now, Neil. Reel in the ego. You're an unknown,
nobody knows who you are." Connie picks up the wooden cutting board and slides the knife across
it, watching the fish meat and the shellfish drop into a pot of water on the stove. "What kind of
messages are you getting from licence plates, Mister Paranoia?"
"I think it's coded messages from the resistance movement, information, giving me the heads up on
what's happening."
"And what are they telling you?" Connie salt and peppers the chowder.
"That I'm being monitored by the government. This stuff does happen, I just never expected it to
happen to me. I've heard stories of other people, non-conformists, the authorities have targeted and
harassed." A sombre tone enters Neil's voice when he says, "Some who have even disappeared,
Connie."
Connie lets out a giggle and puts her hand over her mouth at the slip. "I'm sorry, Neil," she says,
putting on her serious face. "You're having some kind of nervous episode, that must be it. No one
is out to get you. I really don't know what I can do to help you."
Neil hesitates for a moment. Connie isn't buying it. In Neil's mind he is sure he's being watched,
but there's no point wasting energy trying to convince Connie. It's not something she's willing to
accept, it appears. And why should he worry her with his anxiety? It's his problem, not hers. He
says, "Maybe I'm wrong about this feeling of being under surveillance. I do have a tendency to be a
worrywart."
"Yes you do. Relax, Neil." Connie gestures to a wine bottle on the countertop. "Now pour us both
a glass and let's enjoy our dinner."
Neil steps into the kitchen and walks up behind Connie, putting his arms around her waist. He
whispers in her ear, "Spending last night with you was wonderful. I'd like to stay again tonight."
"I'm not sure," Connie answers pensively. "Not tonight, okay Neil?"
Neil nods. Concealing disappointment he says, "Fine. That's fine. I'm not trying to force myself on
you."
"I know you're not," Connie says distractedly, hiding a dark spot in her feelings from him. "Was
your electrocar damaged at all when you retrieved it from the impound?"
"Running just like new. Maybe the thieves took it for a tune-up?"
Neil and Connie talk in the kitchen for the next forty-five minutes, emptying a bottle of wine and
watching the chowder boil and cook, then they sit down to dinner, by that time Neil's appetite has
returned. Neil's paranoiac concerns keep intruding on his thoughts but he's a good enough faker to
be able to keep it to himself. Nothing more is said about it between the two of them for the rest of
the evening. Dinner is eaten, then they watch intravision for a while and, after catching the first
couple of headlines on the government news program, Neil announces he's retiring to his apartment
for the night.
"I'll call you tomorrow," he says with a forced smile and leaves.
Connie puts the leftover chowder in the fridge and loads the dirty dishes into the dishwasher. She
flosses and brushes her teeth, combs her hair, puts on her nightgown and slips into bed.
Then she waits.
For him.
Are you there? Connie calls out mentally, listening in her mind for a reply. The white star, the
lustrous silver dot that looks like the illuminated point of a needle arrives. He has arrived. She
closes her eyes and the burning beacon remains.
Yes, Constance, I am here, a man's low voice answers within her. I've been waiting for you.
It sounds to Connie as if the voice is coming from everywhere in the room, the walls, the ceiling.
Who are you? she asks it. Won't you tell me your name? Won't you?
Yes, I think it is probably time I revealed my identity. I am Ted Angelico.
Are you a real person, Ted Angelico, a human being? Or are you a machine?
I'm very real.
An alien then?
No, human like you. A man who was born of this Earth to male and female parents. I suspect the
starseed was introduced into my body during early childhood. The starseed has clearly touched
you during your lifetime as well. That is the origin of the gift.
Where are you? Are you from the future? You must be from the future to have gee so advanced to
do this.
I'm in the here and now with you. My compound is located near the city of Edmonton. That is
where I am speaking to you from.
Can you see into the future? Can you tell me what is going to happen?
I can. Is there something you would like to know?
The most obvious question that comes to Connie's mind is, When am I going to die? But then she
decides not to ask, fearing she might not want to live with such knowledge.
Don't worry, Connie, you will lead a long life on Earth, living well past one hundred years. And
beyond that you will exist into all eternity.
But I didn't ask that question or want to hear your answer to it. How did you know I was thinking
about my lifespan?
I know everything you think, even thoughts you don't want to be articulated. I hear it all.
Can others hear us talking?
If they have the sensitivity they can.
How is it I'm able to hear you? Are you speaking into a microphone, a communications device?
Is this a transmission from an orbiting satellite?
Your curiosity is a great delight. You're very bright. We like that. I am talking to you the same
way so many people hear you talking to them - with my mind. I am just like you. I too am a freak
of nature. Unusually potent psychic strength is a trait we both share. The talent you possess is a
valuable and marketable commodity on the exchange of influence. You have the innate ability to
shape the actions of others. More so than you are aware. The crowd can be like sheep, waiting
to be told which pasture to graze in. Someone like you can tell those sheep, the people, what to
do next, what product to buy, what person to listen to for wisdom to guide them in their lives. We
would like to welcome you into our group.
You want me to join your religion?
Think of it more as the career opportunity of a lifetime.
I already have a career.
Selling real estate is nickel and dime work, Constance.
You know what I do?
I know everything there is about Constance Black. What you do is no career, it's a job. It's a
tragedy your talent has been neglected and squandered so for as long as it has. There is much we
can offer you.
We? Who do you represent? Are you a political party?
The organization has a hand in government, yes. When decisions are made we are consulted.
But we are not government nor do we follow government, rather it is the other way around.
What are you asking of me?
You must believe in me. That is all I ask. If you believe, then others will too. That is the power
you have. And I promise you, you will be well-rewarded. Allow me to demonstrate what I'm
talking about.
Connie's body is rocked and the bed jolts. She tenses and grabs the wooden headboard of the bed
instinctively with both hands for support, gasping as a sensation of sheer magnificent ecstasy ripples
through her entire body.
Constance, I am holding you in the palm of my hand, stroking you, Ted Angelico warmly coos to
her. Do you like it?
She can't answer him. Ted Angelico has impaled her in rapturous carnal stimulation, filling
unexplored arteries with an addiction-level dosage of pure, undiluted pleasure. She's an immaculate
virgin in this act of telepathic, astral sex; this crossing of a threshold never before felt, never to be
this animal-intense again. Finally she manages to blurt out, "OHMYGODYES!"
We so enjoy the way your mind processes the act of sex, Connie. The images you conjure are so
deliciously scintillating. You don't realize just how extraordinarily unique you are - generation
after generation must wait patiently before eventually it happens and the world is blessed with the
coming of one like yourself.
Connie is entranced by a dancing blue-green mist of electricity, sparkling with phosphorescent
particles of swirling energy. She examines the apparition and she can see that the spectre's shape
and movement is not some random ballet. Adjusting her focus deeper a man's face takes shape, a
hard, goateed face, looking down upon her own. Ted Angelico's goateed face. I love you
Constance. Oh how I adore you, he says. He gently kisses her cheek, his many hands caressing
the inside of her legs, her feet, her breasts. It is a great honour to be with you tonight. I have
waited since birth for this moment.
"Mmmmmmm," Connie moans blissfully. You're the devil. You must be the devil.
I cannot deny my obligation to you. A man's duty to the divine is not to be ignored.
Ted Angelico brings Connie to the point of boil and she has an explosion of physical gratification, a
feeling so extreme that at its peek she feels pain. Satisfied, she sighs and swallows and releases her
hands from the headboard, slumping relaxed and limp in the bed.
That is a mere fraction, a sample of what can be available to you at all times, at any moment you
want or need it. Yet there is so much more I can offer you. Wealth, status, fulfilment in every
area of your existence. All I need is for you to say that you are with me. Constance, tell me
you're with me.
Weakened and overwhelmed, her perspiring body cooling from the wicked encounter, Connie says
nothing.
Well, Connie?
After a long pause, defenceless and unable to resist, Connie Black finally answers, Yes, Ted, I am
with you.
I am taking your word as an agreement of honour. No signature is required to consummate our
contract. You've made an important decision, one of the most important in your entire life.
Tomorrow night when we talk again I will instruct you how to fulfill our union. Goodnight
Constance.
Ted Angelico's presence fades and with it his warmth, warmth like that of an orange vacuum tube in
an antique wireless radio dimming when switched off. I'll put the dishwasher on in the morning,
Connie Black resolves contentedly, falling asleep. And elsewhere, somewhere in the core of the city
of Vancouver, in a bold statement of warning, Ganis Cramb is shot dead in the head while stopped
at a red light, his vehicle smashed and battered with baseball bats, then the car and its occupant
torched, left ablaze for all to see.
fettuccine alfredo, also synth. After coffee they walk to the tip of the pier and watch the sundown
create a spectacular orange hue wash across the horizon.
"These shoes are murder," Connie says, slipping off her high heels into stocking feet. "I'm
beginning to wonder if the company that makes these has something against me."
"Think of it as paying penance for your sins. The minor ones," Neil replies with a smile.
"It doesn't feel like the minor ones," Connie says.
Resting on the wooden railing of the pier, Neil says to her, "We've been lucky with this weather.
It'll change at any moment." He motions to the sky and says, "Every day of this is a bonus."
"This weather is a blessing. Neil, do you ever think about a supreme being?"
"You mean like god?"
"Well maybe not the supreme being. It could be god, I suppose. Everything is a part of god. It
certainly has god-like powers. But I don't know if it is the ultimate god of gods."
"What's on your mind, Connie?"
"When I was in my thirties I started to see there's more to our existence here that just me and the
things I interact with, the people and things we can see and touch and feel."
"Go on..."
"This thing that is a part of everything we do, I've become very aware of it. It's here with us right
now. As I talk to you it's between us, we both interact with it and it with us as we communicate. It
sees everything I see through my eyes, experiences everything I do."
"You've really thought about this."
"Yes I have. It lives with me and within me."
"Like a parasite."
"God, Neil, only you could twist it that way. No, it's not a parasite." Casting the idea Connie is
describing with such a connotation strikes her as very wrong. "It's not a leech or a bug."
"Does it give you anything in return for the experiences you provide it? Payment of some kind? Or
is just a squatter freeloading off you?"
"Through it I can put my thoughts into the minds of others."
"That could be useful in persuading a customer to buy a condo," he answers flippantly.
"I can't actually make people do things. They still have free will. But I can nudge them along, in
one direction or another. But I would never do anything immoral like that, it wouldn't be right. It's
like I have a microphone with a cable attached to a tiny speaker in a person's head."
"How do you know? How can you know what the other person hears, how they feel it? How do
you know any of what you say is true? What proof can you provide?"
"None. I haven't compiled hard scientific evidence. I have condos to sell."
"How come I can't hear you in my head?"
"I'm in there, you just haven't dialled in my voice yet."
"Let's try something, an experiment. I want you to think of something, a word or a phrase, and I'll
see if I can hear what you're thinking of in my mind. Okay?"
"Okay. I have a phrase. I'm thinking it now."
Neil stares into Connie's eyes fixatedly, listening for some voice, Connie's voice, to turn on and say
something within the confines of his skull. But he hears nothing, just the sound of a congregation of
seagulls squawking in the sky behind him and the waves washing onto the sandy shore. After a
minute he gives up.
Neil shakes his head, "No, it didn't work. I can't hear anything. What phrase were you thinking of?"
Just then, before Connie can answer, two elderly people, a man and a woman, walk past them. The
white-haired couple smile at Neil and Connie and the old man says warmly, "Lovely Indian summer
we're having this year, isn't it?"
The old man winks and the elderly couple walk on. Connie looks to Neil and says, "That one."
"That one what?" Neil asks.
"That was the phrase I was thinking of: Indian summer."
"Oh come on. You expect me to believe that that man heard you in his head and that's why he said
'Indian summer'?"
"You don't have to. That's your choice. Coincidences like that happen to me all the time."
"You really believe you can communicate with others this way?"
"Yes. I sense it to be so. And they have told me."
"Who has told you?"
Connie shrugs. "People tell me. Not explicitly but indirectly. It has told me as well."
"It?"
"Neil, I can communicate with it."
"With it. With the entity? Really? How do you do that?"
"By talking to it. It speaks to me in my mind. Gives me answers to my questions. Shows me the
answers to my questions with signs, sometimes before I've even asked it anything. I started
noticing, realizing, that certain thoughts I had weren't actually mine, they were the thoughts of
something trying to speak to me. It likes to play games, like with riddles or codes for me to figure
out. For instance it will show me that today the answers I get to my questions are antonyms, the
truth will actually be the opposite of the answer it gives me."
"Have you ever thought that maybe you're suffering from a mental illness?"
"Like schizophrenia? Just because you talk to something with your mind doesn't mean you're
mentally ill. It's not a mental illness if you're psychic. It's communication."
Connie slips her shoes back on and starts walking slowly back towards shore. Neil follows her
silently, thinking. Then he asks, "Do you wonder if there are others like you, with a similar power,
the power to tap into this thing?"
"There is another, yes. A man with a loud and powerful mind. A mind with feelers like the
tentacles of a giant octopus that can extend anywhere. I feel him from time to time, it comes and
goes."
"Just one other person?"
"No, others too. But he's the strongest. I feel his presence most strongly in the night, his legato
rhythm as he makes love to his women."
"Legato?"
"It means smoothly, slowly...sensuously."
"I know what it means," Neil says curtly. "If you can feel him then does that mean he can feel
you?"
"Depending upon his level of awareness, yes, I imagine so."
"If what you say is true, there could be great potential for getting things done, your way, ambition
providing the only limitation."
"I don't think of it that way, Neil."
The two of them slowly walk back in the direction of Connie's place. As they approach her
apartment complex Neil can't see his electrocar, the parking space on the street where he left it now
vacant. It hits him, his electrocar isn't there.
"That's great, my electrocar's gone," Neil tells Connie, pointing to the empty slot on the side of the
road. "I parked it right there. It was there when we left. It's been stolen."
"Are you sure you parked it there?"
"Yes, I'm sure."
"You can file a report from my place. I guess that means you're staying the night?"
The next day it starts to rain and doesn't stop for eight years. Neil didn't expect to see the electrocar
again, sure it had been torn to pieces for parts or been dumped and abandoned down some deserted
dirt road. He had already braced himself for the expense of a new one when he got a call from
Corrector Order Enforcement a day later telling him his electrocar had been recovered, intact, and
was waiting for pickup at an impound lot. Good thing he hadn't bought a new one yet. He was
using public transportation till he decided which vehicle to purchase. Now that worry was gone. All
he had to do was pay the towing and overnight storage expense and he had his wheels back. Simple
as that. The police failed to mention two things, though. One: He had to fill up the empty fuel cell.
And two: His electrocar had been fitted with a surveillance chip allowing it to be positioned, pinged
and located anywhere. And the surveillance chip contained an ultra-sensitive receiver, so sensitive
in fact that not only was it capable of monitoring all audio within the vehicle, it could pick up beta
rhythm brain-wave signals as well. In other words, any communication within the electrocar,
whether spoken or thought, could be transmitted to a recording device.
The impound lot is at Fraser Highway and 160th in Surrey. Connie drives Neil to the lot. I'm off to
the supermarket to buy the ingredients for a surprise for dinner, she tells him. He pays the attendant
who gives him directions where to find his electrocar amid the hundreds of other electrocars in the
expansive field of metal and rubber. As he searches, he begins noticing an intermittent clicking
sound, like the sound heard when an electrocar engine cools, coming from each derelict vehicle he
walks past, as though alerting him that he's being tracked by a heat ray from above. Neil forgets all
about it when he spots his electrocar. Getting in, he sits down and inserts the key in the ignition.
The vehicle starts up just like new. Kind of surprises him a little. The correctors weren't able to tell
him anything about what had happened to his electrocar, only that it had been found and identified,
so he wasn't sure what shape it would be in or if it would still be in running order when he picked it
up. But it is, so he pulls out of the yard and looks for a charger station and turns on the radio. All
of his pre-set stations have been washed from the memory so he tunes in his favourite oldies station.
A love song sung by a female singer comes to a crescendo and ends.
I wish I could have heard that one, I love that song, Neil thinks gaily. What was that song called?
he wonders. He turns up the radio, hoping the DJ will say the name of the tune.
"Well, Neil, if you really want to know," says the silky-smooth voice of the female announcer, "the
name of that song is 'We've Only Just Begun' by The Carpenters."
Huh? Did I really just hear my name mentioned on the radio?
"Yes, you did," says the DJ. "And here's another song I just know you're gonna love."
Bewildered, Neil hits the scan button and the jangling, frenzied opening chords of a Beatles ditty are
chopped off, the radio frequency sliding automatically up the band. He stops it when it gets to the
government news station. A business report is announcing the day's closing prices of the
commodities gold, electricity and oil. The business reporter hands off to another anchor who says,
"Now for today's top news stories. Neil Jaggard has recovered his vehicle from the impound lot in
Fleetwood in Surrey and is travelling north on the King George Highway. In other news, businesses
and residents of the downtown eastside still in the dark due to a massive power blackout could have
their power restored within forty-eight hours. Electricity rationing will continue in other parts of the
lower mainland until further notice..."
Could they - could they be talking about me? Have they finally caught up with me?
The announcer interrupts his news report and soberly says, "Yes, Mr. Jaggard, we are talking about
you." The reporter then continues on with the electricity crisis story.
An uneasy feeling of cold fear grabs hold of him. A new kind of fear he's never felt before; it twists
and screws into his guts and into the core of his brain. His mouth becomes cotton-dry, his tongue
sticking to his gums. A part of Neil always felt that it was just a matter of time before the delicious
freedom he enjoyed would run out, his writing was sure to get him noticed. He knows he's being
monitored and whoever is doing the monitoring seems to want him to know. And why not? Once
they've clamped onto you there's nothing you or anyone can do to stop them. He'd heard of things
like this happening to people the government didn't like. He also remembers what Ganis Cramb told
him and Connie about the media being used for purposes other than straight information and
entertainment dissemination.
He switches the radio off and, his hands gripping the steering wheel, scans the side of the highway
for a charger station. He locates one and pulls into the bay. He gets out and begins charging up the
fuel cell with electricity. He nervously takes a look around. There are two other patrons charging
up the batteries in their electrocars. Both of the customers, men dressed in black suits, are watching
him, staring straight at him.
What are you looking at? Never seen a guy charge up his fuel cell before? Neil unplugs the charger
and puts it back on the pump, gets back in his electrocar and pulls out onto the highway. Driving
along, his vision veers towards the licence plates of the other vehicles surrounding him on the road.
The letters on the licence plates of seven electrocars that pass him in succession say U R IN DGR
YU MST HDE. The plates contain coded messages being relayed to me, Neil realizes. He takes
the letters to say You Are In Danger, You Must Hide. He can't take his eyes off the licence plates
of the electrocars around him. TE WR IZ NT DC LRD BT IT IZ ON. The War Is Not Declared
But It Is On Neil interprets.
Connie is preparing her special seafood chowder in her kitchen. Synth clams and muscles and
scallops are scattered on a wood cutting board and she's slicing up a cut of halibut, the gooey, white
flesh in her left hand, the knife in her right. The phone rings the double ring of a visitor's arrival.
Trying not to get the sticky goo on the telephone, Connie holds the handset with the palm of her
hand and pushes the code on the keypad with her thumb, opening the front door twelve floors
downstairs, letting Neil in. A minute later Neil bursts through the door of Connie's condo.
"Constance, I'm under surveillance by somebody! I'm being watched!"
Still cutting the fish into tender cubes, her back to Neil, she asks, "What makes you think that?"
"I'm being relayed information via the radio," he says, panicked. "They're indicating they know
precisely what I'm doing and where I am."
Connie stops chopping and rests her hands on the corner of the counter and looks back over her left
shoulder.
"They've got a mindtap on me, they can hear what I'm thinking," Neil goes on. "They're
responding to my thoughts. I didn't know they could do that. And I'm getting messages relayed to
me from the licence plates of other vehicles on the road."
Connie puts down the knife and wipes her hands up and down on the apron she's wearing. She
turns, walks over to Neil, rests her arms on his collarbones and, being about six inches shorter than
him, looks up at him sweetly.
"What kind of a greeting is that? Don't you even say 'hi' to me any more when you show up?"
Connie closes her eyes and kisses him on the lips then pulls her face back from him. "Messages
from vehicle license plates?" she asks with raised eyebrows.
Neil takes a breath, collects himself, thinks about it for a moment and says, "I'm sorry. That was
rude of me, wasn't it? It's the anxiety. I needed to tell someone."
"Yes it was rude," Connie says, nodding in agreement. She walks back to the kitchen counter and
starts chopping again. "I'm making your favourite, seafood chowder."
"That's great, Connie. I haven't eaten anything all day. I need food to get my blood sugar
balanced."
"If they, whoever it is you think might be keeping an eye on you, are really doing this then they
would know you're here with me, right?"
"Yes, I suppose they would."
"Well, you're safe here. Who would want to keep tabs on you? And for what reason?"
"Something to do with my political stance, my views, my way of thinking."
"You really think you're that important? Come now, Neil. Reel in the ego. You're an unknown,
nobody knows who you are." Connie picks up the wooden cutting board and slides the knife across
it, watching the fish meat and the shellfish drop into a pot of water on the stove. "What kind of
messages are you getting from licence plates, Mister Paranoia?"
"I think it's coded messages from the resistance movement, information, giving me the heads up on
what's happening."
"And what are they telling you?" Connie salt and peppers the chowder.
"That I'm being monitored by the government. This stuff does happen, I just never expected it to
happen to me. I've heard stories of other people, non-conformists, the authorities have targeted and
harassed." A sombre tone enters Neil's voice when he says, "Some who have even disappeared,
Connie."
Connie lets out a giggle and puts her hand over her mouth at the slip. "I'm sorry, Neil," she says,
putting on her serious face. "You're having some kind of nervous episode, that must be it. No one
is out to get you. I really don't know what I can do to help you."
Neil hesitates for a moment. Connie isn't buying it. In Neil's mind he is sure he's being watched,
but there's no point wasting energy trying to convince Connie. It's not something she's willing to
accept, it appears. And why should he worry her with his anxiety? It's his problem, not hers. He
says, "Maybe I'm wrong about this feeling of being under surveillance. I do have a tendency to be a
worrywart."
"Yes you do. Relax, Neil." Connie gestures to a wine bottle on the countertop. "Now pour us both
a glass and let's enjoy our dinner."
Neil steps into the kitchen and walks up behind Connie, putting his arms around her waist. He
whispers in her ear, "Spending last night with you was wonderful. I'd like to stay again tonight."
"I'm not sure," Connie answers pensively. "Not tonight, okay Neil?"
Neil nods. Concealing disappointment he says, "Fine. That's fine. I'm not trying to force myself on
you."
"I know you're not," Connie says distractedly, hiding a dark spot in her feelings from him. "Was
your electrocar damaged at all when you retrieved it from the impound?"
"Running just like new. Maybe the thieves took it for a tune-up?"
Neil and Connie talk in the kitchen for the next forty-five minutes, emptying a bottle of wine and
watching the chowder boil and cook, then they sit down to dinner, by that time Neil's appetite has
returned. Neil's paranoiac concerns keep intruding on his thoughts but he's a good enough faker to
be able to keep it to himself. Nothing more is said about it between the two of them for the rest of
the evening. Dinner is eaten, then they watch intravision for a while and, after catching the first
couple of headlines on the government news program, Neil announces he's retiring to his apartment
for the night.
"I'll call you tomorrow," he says with a forced smile and leaves.
Connie puts the leftover chowder in the fridge and loads the dirty dishes into the dishwasher. She
flosses and brushes her teeth, combs her hair, puts on her nightgown and slips into bed.
Then she waits.
For him.
Are you there? Connie calls out mentally, listening in her mind for a reply. The white star, the
lustrous silver dot that looks like the illuminated point of a needle arrives. He has arrived. She
closes her eyes and the burning beacon remains.
Yes, Constance, I am here, a man's low voice answers within her. I've been waiting for you.
It sounds to Connie as if the voice is coming from everywhere in the room, the walls, the ceiling.
Who are you? she asks it. Won't you tell me your name? Won't you?
Yes, I think it is probably time I revealed my identity. I am Ted Angelico.
Are you a real person, Ted Angelico, a human being? Or are you a machine?
I'm very real.
An alien then?
No, human like you. A man who was born of this Earth to male and female parents. I suspect the
starseed was introduced into my body during early childhood. The starseed has clearly touched
you during your lifetime as well. That is the origin of the gift.
Where are you? Are you from the future? You must be from the future to have gee so advanced to
do this.
I'm in the here and now with you. My compound is located near the city of Edmonton. That is
where I am speaking to you from.
Can you see into the future? Can you tell me what is going to happen?
I can. Is there something you would like to know?
The most obvious question that comes to Connie's mind is, When am I going to die? But then she
decides not to ask, fearing she might not want to live with such knowledge.
Don't worry, Connie, you will lead a long life on Earth, living well past one hundred years. And
beyond that you will exist into all eternity.
But I didn't ask that question or want to hear your answer to it. How did you know I was thinking
about my lifespan?
I know everything you think, even thoughts you don't want to be articulated. I hear it all.
Can others hear us talking?
If they have the sensitivity they can.
How is it I'm able to hear you? Are you speaking into a microphone, a communications device?
Is this a transmission from an orbiting satellite?
Your curiosity is a great delight. You're very bright. We like that. I am talking to you the same
way so many people hear you talking to them - with my mind. I am just like you. I too am a freak
of nature. Unusually potent psychic strength is a trait we both share. The talent you possess is a
valuable and marketable commodity on the exchange of influence. You have the innate ability to
shape the actions of others. More so than you are aware. The crowd can be like sheep, waiting
to be told which pasture to graze in. Someone like you can tell those sheep, the people, what to
do next, what product to buy, what person to listen to for wisdom to guide them in their lives. We
would like to welcome you into our group.
You want me to join your religion?
Think of it more as the career opportunity of a lifetime.
I already have a career.
Selling real estate is nickel and dime work, Constance.
You know what I do?
I know everything there is about Constance Black. What you do is no career, it's a job. It's a
tragedy your talent has been neglected and squandered so for as long as it has. There is much we
can offer you.
We? Who do you represent? Are you a political party?
The organization has a hand in government, yes. When decisions are made we are consulted.
But we are not government nor do we follow government, rather it is the other way around.
What are you asking of me?
You must believe in me. That is all I ask. If you believe, then others will too. That is the power
you have. And I promise you, you will be well-rewarded. Allow me to demonstrate what I'm
talking about.
Connie's body is rocked and the bed jolts. She tenses and grabs the wooden headboard of the bed
instinctively with both hands for support, gasping as a sensation of sheer magnificent ecstasy ripples
through her entire body.
Constance, I am holding you in the palm of my hand, stroking you, Ted Angelico warmly coos to
her. Do you like it?
She can't answer him. Ted Angelico has impaled her in rapturous carnal stimulation, filling
unexplored arteries with an addiction-level dosage of pure, undiluted pleasure. She's an immaculate
virgin in this act of telepathic, astral sex; this crossing of a threshold never before felt, never to be
this animal-intense again. Finally she manages to blurt out, "OHMYGODYES!"
We so enjoy the way your mind processes the act of sex, Connie. The images you conjure are so
deliciously scintillating. You don't realize just how extraordinarily unique you are - generation
after generation must wait patiently before eventually it happens and the world is blessed with the
coming of one like yourself.
Connie is entranced by a dancing blue-green mist of electricity, sparkling with phosphorescent
particles of swirling energy. She examines the apparition and she can see that the spectre's shape
and movement is not some random ballet. Adjusting her focus deeper a man's face takes shape, a
hard, goateed face, looking down upon her own. Ted Angelico's goateed face. I love you
Constance. Oh how I adore you, he says. He gently kisses her cheek, his many hands caressing
the inside of her legs, her feet, her breasts. It is a great honour to be with you tonight. I have
waited since birth for this moment.
"Mmmmmmm," Connie moans blissfully. You're the devil. You must be the devil.
I cannot deny my obligation to you. A man's duty to the divine is not to be ignored.
Ted Angelico brings Connie to the point of boil and she has an explosion of physical gratification, a
feeling so extreme that at its peek she feels pain. Satisfied, she sighs and swallows and releases her
hands from the headboard, slumping relaxed and limp in the bed.
That is a mere fraction, a sample of what can be available to you at all times, at any moment you
want or need it. Yet there is so much more I can offer you. Wealth, status, fulfilment in every
area of your existence. All I need is for you to say that you are with me. Constance, tell me
you're with me.
Weakened and overwhelmed, her perspiring body cooling from the wicked encounter, Connie says
nothing.
Well, Connie?
After a long pause, defenceless and unable to resist, Connie Black finally answers, Yes, Ted, I am
with you.
I am taking your word as an agreement of honour. No signature is required to consummate our
contract. You've made an important decision, one of the most important in your entire life.
Tomorrow night when we talk again I will instruct you how to fulfill our union. Goodnight
Constance.
Ted Angelico's presence fades and with it his warmth, warmth like that of an orange vacuum tube in
an antique wireless radio dimming when switched off. I'll put the dishwasher on in the morning,
Connie Black resolves contentedly, falling asleep. And elsewhere, somewhere in the core of the city
of Vancouver, in a bold statement of warning, Ganis Cramb is shot dead in the head while stopped
at a red light, his vehicle smashed and battered with baseball bats, then the car and its occupant
torched, left ablaze for all to see.
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