“For reasons that I’m guessing are clearer now, I was desperate to find you. To have gotten so close to having these conversations, this recognition, and then to have you disappear—it was devastating. The only time I’d been seen in that way was with Sara…and that wasn’t the same. Even though I let her know me, she couldn’t truly understand what I was going through. Again, not her fault. In this case, nobody’s fault. But with you—there was the possibility of a true exchange, a true understanding. Which I lost. Because, as already established, I handled it very badly.
“I realized Nathan was the only connection to you I had left. And I knew a straightforward plea was not going to work. What did he owe me? So I decided to spook him. And it worked. It worked well. Until we became stuck again, and the way I thought to unstick it was to spook him some more. But, again, what I did was inexcusable, no matter what desperation I was feeling. I just want to acknowledge that so we can move on.”
I’m surprised he’s brought it up. And relieved.
“It’s really Nathan you should be apologizing to,” I say. “Not me.”
“I know. But I can’t imagine he wants to be in a room with me right now. So can you at least pass it on?”
I nod. “I will.”
I feel there are other things I should be saying, but I don’t know what they are. That violence is wrong? He seems to know that. That desperation is no excuse? He seems to know that also. I think of some of the mistakes I’ve made, particularly the way I kidnapped Katie to Denver. It’s not like I’m blameless when it comes to harmful decisions made in the heat of wanting something.
“I remember Nathan right after your experience with him,” X goes on. “How scared he was. You must have left him abruptly. Because usually I feel there’s a transition when we leave. Don’t you?”
I remember talking to Rhiannon about this, after I had seen life through her eyes for a day. Her reaction wasn’t the same as Nathan’s at all.
“I like to think there’s a way to make it easier for them,” I say.
“There has to be. Otherwise, people would catch on. They would talk about it more. They’d figure it out—and that would be devastating to us. And to them. Our private power would become their public crisis. Can you imagine how many more minds would be further destabilized, in this already destabilizing age? Bad enough to have to grapple with your own biology, your own chemistry. But then to think that one day you might wake up with someone else in charge? What’s already fragile would break.”
“So you’re saying our secrecy serves them, too?”
“Absolutely. It serves us all.”
We’ve gotten to his hotel, and he takes me up to the top floor. When he said he was staying in a suite, I pictured something like a Residence Inn—a regular hotel room, only with two beds and maybe a kitchenette.
This room is much grander than that.
It actually feels like we’re in a rich person’s apartment. There’s a living room. A dining room. A kitchen. And, presumably, a bedroom and bathroom (two bathrooms!) beyond.
X gestures to one of the two couches. “Make yourself at home. Do you want something to drink?”
“Water’s fine.”
“There’s a full bar here. Go crazy.”
“Okay, then—ginger ale.”
He shakes his head, amused. “Suit yourself.”
I don’t think X knows how funny it is to see Wyatt being the lord of this particular manor. Wyatt looks like he might have a job driving deliveries for a pizza place. He does not look like he should have the keys to a suite.
X hands me what I’m sure is the most expensive can of Canada Dry I’ve ever held. He’s gotten a Coke for himself.
I know it’s not one of the questions you’re usually encouraged to ask, but since we’re in far from usual circumstances, I ask, “How can you afford this?”
“Wise investments.”
“With whose money?”
“I’ll explain.”
And explain he does—something about offshore accounts, shifting assets, and “choice liquidation.” I only understand about half of it, but the half I understand is this: He takes money from some of the people he occupies and he puts it in his own bank accounts.
“Isn’t that, like, stealing?” I ask.
“Yes and no. Yes, in that what was once theirs becomes mine, and it is not a gift that is freely given. And no, because I am very careful to only take from the people who have plenty to spare. All you need to do is dip into that top income bracket three or four times a year and you’re set. I’m not going to take money from a family of seven living in a two-bedroom apartment. If anything, I may dip into my own accounts and leave them something for their troubles. It is one of our great abilities, to be able to redistribute wealth.”
“But you’re taking advantage.”
“Yes! And you need to take advantage as well, A. We need every possible advantage we can get in order to survive. You believe that freedom is essential, correct? That every man deserves his own independence?”
“Of course.”
“Well, how else are we going to have our own freedom, if we don’t have our own means? How are we going to have our own independence, if we don’t get to make our own choices? You may have noticed—our society revolves around money. You may also have noticed that our temporal bodily state does not give us any direct way to earn money. So we must ‘take advantage.’ If we see any advantage whatsoever, we must grab it.”
“What other advantages are there?” I ask him, both curious and afraid.
“We have the advantage of being able to walk away from anything, A—anything short of death. We don’t have to live with consequences like other people. Nor do we have to be anchored to bodies that we hate, which is the truth for so many of them. We have the advantage of being able to see from angles they can’t imagine. And when we take on positions of power, we assume that power as our own, for as long as we’d like it—just by virtue of waking up in the right place.”
“There are still consequences of what we do.”
“Of course there are. I’m just saying we have a different relationship to them.”
“You might.”
“If you don’t, you will. But I suspect you do already, even if you don’t acknowledge it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you can’t possibly live with all of the consequences of your actions, for all these people. The capacity of memory does not stretch that wide. They live with what you’ve done to them. You do not. Which is as it should be.”