LXVI.
t h e r e ' s a
n e w h o m o
i n t o w n
—LILA WAS PACING outside the door. In her hands was the case file. 744.
"Listen, sis," she murmured to herself. "I've got something to tell you." She stopped her pacing. "No, that's not right. Gotta get straight to the point. How about—Zara, I have horrible news. It's about our parents and your bastard friend—no, not quite. Your bastard acquaintance. That's better. Now, from the top—"
She cleared her throat and ran through her entire speech, complete with sensitive intonations and sympathetic nods at an imaginary person situated in front of her.
When she had repeated the full version, she stopped and frowned to herself. Three minutes later she returned with a box of tissues in one hand and Double Stuf Oreos in the other. Much better.
She tucked the case file away into her jacket. No need to have that hideous thing out in the open, screaming its misery like an ill-fated banshee. Better to first tell Zara gently, sister-to-sister, that the only boy she'd ever truly liked had murdered both of their parents in the year 1993.
Lila sighed. This wasn't going to be easy, was it? But it was the only thing to do.
And then, said a impish little voice inside of her, Five is going to get exactly what he deserves.
He was going to hurt . . .
Lila gave one swift, decisive nod of her head. Then she tucked the Oreos under one arm, put her key into the latch, and swung open the door.
"Oh no," said Lila, almost as though pleading with someone. "Oh no—no!"
The room was completely, undoubtedly, irrefutably empty.
. . .
—DIEGO WOKE UP IN a dark place. A little white light hung from the ceiling and made him blink. Four faces topped with absurd berets stared at him in the darkness. One of the men was holding a pipe wrapped in strips of dark felt. Another put on yellow rawhide gloves.
There was a thin man standing in the center. He smiled placidly upon seeing Diego wake up. "Look at that," he announced. "Seems our sleepy friend has decided to join the party. How ya feelin', Mr. Runaway?"
"I feel like shit," said Diego. "Thanks to you."
"We at the Commission are real hospitable, you know that?" said the thin man, still smiling. "And when you tried to leave us so soon—" He gave a half-comedic wince. "It was real impolite, lemme tell you."
"I want to talk to Lila."
The man caressed his smooth cheek, watching him obliquely out of slightly narrowed eyes.
"Eager to leave us? No. We have orders from The Handler, you see. She says you might be useful. Useful—for your connections. For the little band of idiots you call your siblings."
Diego gave a short laugh. "You'll have no luck with that."
"What I suggest is this," continued the other, running on as though he had not heard Diego. "You will go back to your family, gather information, and report back. If you've got somethin' good, maybe I let you live another week."
"I will do no such thing!" said Diego angrily.
"That's just stupid, and stupidity always got to be paid for. Let's get some of that stupid knocked out of your system." He flicked his wrist.
The man in the yellow rawhide gloves swung a quick uppercut, bringing it from hip level to the side of Diego's face. Pain exploded in his head and for a few moments he saw everything on that side through a scarlet haze.
"Okay, you look a little more awake now," the thin man said. "Where was I? Oh, I know. Deals. Tell me, Hargreeves. Whaddaya say?"
"I say no," Diego replied. His voice sounded fuzzy, because the side of his mouth was swelling. "I say you can go to hell, asshole."
"You sure about that?"
"For the last time, I won't betray my family! To hell with you! Let me go!"
"Sorry chump," said the thin man, grinning. "Handler says you're a damn bad flight risk. No hard feelings." He gestured to the man with the pipe. "Kneecap this stupid sonofabitch, will ya?"
Involuntarily, Diego closed his eyes and breathed a short prayer.
"Stop!"
The voice came from the doorway opposite.
Diego twisted his head to see. He blinked. Rubbed his eyes. Was this—? But surely not! Surely his eyes must be playing tricks on him! Surely—surely—surely—
But as Diego watched with wide, bewildered eyes, the figure stepped into the light, and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that what he seeing was true.
Standing in the doorway, the neatly ironed Commission ensemble stretched over his mammoth-sized frame, was Luther.
. . .
—"WHO THE HELL are you?" demanded the thin man.
"My name is Luther," said Luther. He paused. "Lex. Lex Luthor. Not like the comic books. 'Lex' short for Alexander. 'Luthor' short for . . . Luthorson. Alexander Luthorson, at your service. Yes, I was bullied as a child. Listen, I am under strict orders to take this man away. The Handler wants to speak to him."
"You're The Handler's assistant? What happened to her old assistant, Phil?"
Luther shrugged. "Same thing that happened to homo erectus. He was replaced by a superior species. Step aside, gentlemen. There's a new homo in town and you can bet your ass I ain't erectus."
It was then that the other four men looked at each other. Confused. Unsure. Somewhat disturbed.
"Anyway," went on Luther, "lovely talking to you gents, but I've gotta drop this sucker off at HQ. Shift is almost over and my female wife is waiting for me."
"Your . . . female wife?" repeated the thin man.
"Yes. Perhaps I should clarify. I am a man. Yes, it is true. I am married to a female woman. That's because I'm attracted to female women. Nothing more intoxicating than the absence of a phallus, eh, fellas?"
Diego knit his brow. No wonder Luther couldn't get girls. God, this was painful to watch.
The men looked at Luther suspiciously.
"So you're just gonna take Zorro over here and go? Am I getting this right?"
"Obviously," said Luther. "Hand him over at once, if you will. I was planning to do pilates tonight and time's a-ticking."
"Pilates?" The thin man became suddenly guarded. "That's a woman's exercise."
"No—I mean—Pilates is the name of my most recent sexual partner. My wife. Pilates is my wife. She's a doll. Not a real doll. 'Doll' is a term of endearment. I'm not a weirdo who screws mannequins. That would be Five."
"Who do you mean by 'Five'?"
"Five?" Luther gave a shake of his head, and, suddenly and inexplicably, lapsed into what sounded to Diego like a very odd British accent. "Honestly, my friend, that's a story for another day. And what a story. Someday I'm going to sit down and write it all up. Like a memoir. I always thought I'd make a marvellous writer. I'd call it a torrid love affair—a shattering tale of betrayal—a glittering saga of teenage anguish." Luther paused. Everyone was staring at him. He cleared his throat and said in a gruff voice: "Oh, I should clarify. Five's my little brother."
The thin man became almost frightened. "You're in a torrid love affair with your teenage brother?"
Luther looked at them for a second. Then he grabbed Diego's arm, yanked him up, and went swiftly to the door.
"Vulvas," said Luther. "Discuss, gentlemen."
When the door shut behind them, they dropped the façade and ran immediately into a storage closet at the end of the hall. Luther shut the door.
Diego breathed a sigh of pure relief. He looked at his brother.
"Dude," said Diego, "why are you like this?"
There was a crumbling sound, like shifting sands, and then the enormous bulking form of Luther was reduced to a small, rather excited-looking girl.
Zara grinned at him. "Whassup?"
Diego's eyebrows shot up. "Alexander Luthorson, you brilliant bastard!"
"Alexander actually is a bastard," Zara informed him. "Never knew either of his parents. Raised by the wolves in the Indian wilderness."
"Ooh, badass backstory."
"I stole it from the Jungle Book."
He smiled despite himself.
"You came to find me," he said.
"Well, I couldn't very well have left you on your own," said Zara, looking quite mortified at the suggestion. "You would've gotten yourself killed without me!"
"Oh, come on. I could've taken those guys. Hey, I didn't know you could do the whole body snatching thing."
"I didn't know either," she admitted. "Sometimes I amaze even myself. Never doing it again, mind you. Human bodies have far too many dangly bits. Atrocious."
Diego wrinkled his nose in disgust. He would really rather not think about the dangly bits.
"I know what to do," he said. "We've gotta find the main control room for this place. We need to know what happens to Kennedy."
"The Infinite Switchboard. That's what you're looking for. It has all the tapes for the timeline and it's only a few hallways down from here."
"Done. Then we'll go there quickly and start messing around with the machine—"
"I can't," said Zara instantly.
Diego was baffled. "Why the hell can't you?"
"Because—" She began to look a little ashamed. "Well—You see—Mother said she would ground me for a month if I ever touched the switchboard."
Diego looked at Zara. Ah, yes. He nodded wisely to himself. The time had come. He put a hand on her shoulder.
"As your self-appointed father figure—"
"Older brother figure. Let's stick to older brother figure for now."
"Fine." He cleared his throat. "As your self-appointed older-brother figure, I, Diego Hargreeves, by the power vested in me, hereby give you my sincerest blessing to screw some shit up."
Zara swallowed nervously. "This is going to be dangerous," she said. "If they catch us, that'll be the end. You realize that?"
"I realize that." Diego throwed an apprehensive glance at the door. "But we need to do this. We need to save the world." He put his hand on the doorknob.
"Wait!" She caught his arm. "Before we go—What are the three words? I want to hear you say them."
He looked quite confused.
"I . . . love . . . you?"
"What? No. I appreciate the sentiment, man, but that's not what I'm talking about. Repeat after me: I won't die."
"I won't die," said Diego with confidence.
"Good." She took a deep breath. She got the feeling Five wouldn't be too happy if she had to drag Diego's dead body back to 1963. "Then let's go screw some shit up."
That's exactly what they did.
. . .
—THE INFINITE SWITCHBOARD was a magnificent thing. It was a computer—at least that's what it looked like to Zara—and it stretched all the way around the walls of the room, purring like a cat and blinking like Christmas lights.
The central keypad sat on a big steel desk at the end of the empty room. A black television screen hung above it. Diego collapsed into a chair of similar size with a grunt.
"Stupid thing's gotta have a password, right?"
"I don't know. I imagine my mother sets all the passwords. Probably keeps them to herself, too, the sly old witch."
While they waited for system to boot, Zara wondered what 2019 would be like when they got back. Would things be exactly the same? Different? Then she remembered she wasn't going back. Silly her.
"I think I'm losing it, Diego," she said.
"I know the feeling. Just hang on, kid, you'll—wait, here we go. Let's see. Passcode required. Four digits. Letters or numbers. We've got maybe three guesses before the system shuts us out. Any ideas?"
Zara leaned forward and clicked four keys.
L-I-L-A.
The little green checkmark rewarded her. Zara smacked her forehead. They were in.
"Stupid Lila," she said under her breath.
Diego tapped the touch pad, muttered, nodded, clicked on something, then stared into the computer screen like a swami consulting his crystal ball.
"Well?"
He sighed. "I got nothing."
"Here," said Zara. "Move over. Let me try."
"You don't know about this techie shit, either," said Diego, but relinquished the chair anyway.
"Yeah, but kids are supposed to be good with computers. And anyway, you're, like, old. You're a full-on grownup. Practically a senior citizen. Like Lila."
Diego whistled. "All I gotta say is you're gonna be real shocked when you hear about Five, kid."
Curious, he picked up some of the wires and began to poke them aimlessly at the holes of the switchboard, trying first one then another. A jolt of electricity shot up his arm, sending sparkly tingles of pain all the way to his elbow. He jumped back.
All of a sudden, a rough hand was clamped on his shoulder, holding him in its vice grip. Diego spun around, so smoothly and gracefully that ballet dancers everywhere might swoon in envy, and grabbed his assailant by the collar. The pudgy little man was held suspended an inch or so off the ground.
"Hey, Herb," said Zara. "How's it hangin'?"
"I'll be honest with you," said Herb, dangling from Diego's fists like a fish on a rod. "It's not hanging great. I am—how the children say—hanging brain."
"Euphemisms, Herb," Zara sighed. "What did we discuss about euphemisms?"
Diego dropped the man unceremoniously. "Wait—you two know each other?"
"'Course," replied the girl. "Herb used to play chess with me on his lunch breaks back in the day."
"Yeppers," said Herb. "Then she got promoted over me in the Analysis Department despite never showing up to work. Ah, the joys of—uh, workplace nepotism." He rubbed his sore neck and smiled rather stupidly at Diego. "It's an honour to meet you, Mr. Hargreeves."
Diego looked rather pleased by this. "You know me?" Then, clearing his throat: "Of course you know me. Er—why, exactly, do you know me?"
"Everybody knows you. You're the famous Number Two! You're a legend!"
"Hold up," said Zara, red in the face. "You guys have been spying on us?"
"Not exactly," said Herb. He paused. "But, for the record, I am squarely on Team Five. We're all rooting for you two back at Analysis."
"Wha—?"
Herb then decided to take the moment to remove his jacket and reveal a cheap shirt of the early 2000s style, proving that he was, indeed, on Team Five.
"Well," said Zara. "I think that just might be the weirdest thing that's happened to me all week, and that's really saying something."
"Mr. Hargreeves," implored Herb, turning a set of round, bucolic eyes pitifully to Diego. "You really can't be here."
"Herb," chided Diego good-naturedly, "is that any way to speak to a legend?"
Herb flushed, pink skin turning pinker than Zara thought humanly possible. He shook his head hurriedly.
Diego stood back from the central computer. "Do you know how to work this puppy?"
"I am certified to operate the ISB, yes."
"Good." Now Diego smiled—a pleased, real smile. "I need you to look up a date. November 22, 1963. The assassination of John F. Kennedy."
Herb's features became suddenly pinched. He shook his head fearfully. "But that would be . . ." —he lowered his voice and glanced nervously over his shoulder— "unauthorized use of the Infinite Switchboard."
"I authorize it," said Zara at once.
"Doesn't work that way. Unauthorized use of the ISB is a clear violation of company protocol 67D, page fourteen, paragraph seven, line two—"
Diego said sharply: "Don't be such a tight-ass."
"You don't get it! There's been a coup d'état!"
"What's that?" whispered Diego to Zara. "Did he just say Cadillac?"
"I think it's a type of soup," she whispered back.
"Coup d'état," enunciated Herb carefully. "The Handler has taken over the Commission. The whole place has gone to heck in a handbasket, and people are disappearing. They would kill us all if they caught us here!"
"Please, Herb!" pleaded Zara. "The last few days have been such torment! First I kiss Five, then he tells me he feels nothing for me, then my publishers tell me my new book is too unconventional—"
"What?" interrupted Diego. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, I plagiarized the entire Twilight series by memory. Only in my version, Edward is an anthropomorphic orca."
"This is the skin of a killer whale, Bella," confirmed Kiki. She burst into hysterical giggles.
"No, no, the Five thing. What happened?"
"He rejected me. There's no logical reason why. I suppose I am simply too good a kisser, Diego. Poor old codger. Heart is weak at that age. Frankly I may have struck him down with my passionate kissing skills. These lips are rated E for everyone."
"I don't think that means what you think it means."
"You're right. I got carried away. Never speak of this moment again?"
"Done!"
They high-fived.
"I've always wanted to be part of these group high-five sessions," Herb said.
"Are you going to operate the switchboard for us?" Zara asked.
Herb thought about it. Then he nodded.
"My man," said Diego approvingly, and gave him a crisp high-five. Herb looked most pleased.
Herb went forward and began tinkering with switchboard. In a minute the low purring sound coming from the machine became louder, duller like air from a ventilation system. An image appeared on the television screen over the computer.
Zara squinted at the screen. It had been ages since she'd seen footage in quality like this. Most of the televisions she had seen over the last months could barely cough up a decent colour image.
They all gathered round. The image on the screen zeroed in on one particular road. It was the avenue by the Texas School Book Depository. The one with the best view of Dealey Plaza and Elm Street, where it curved toward the Triple Underpass. A big black all-American auto came smoothly down the road.
Zara began shivering. Kiki, aware of the vibrations coming from the shoulder she had perched herself on, dug her little claws in to keep her footing. It made a dull ache, but Zara didn't mind. She was glad. It tied her to world.
"This is it," murmured Diego. "Right before the assassination."
Herb stared at him. "Assassination? You don't understand—"
"Of course I understand." Diego's eyes were glued to the screen. "Kennedy's in that car—the black one, see? One more turn past Elm and they're gonna start shooting."
Then, suddenly, an explosion rocked the building opposite the Book Depository. Sixth floor, southeast window. Dust flew. An entire slab of glass and cement tore away from its foundation and hurled to the ground. A woman, pale and dreary, with flaming silver hair and eyes that glowed white, stood suspended in the air above the ruins.
Zara frowned. "That isn't supposed to happen, is it? What's going on?"
"That's the FBI building," said Herb.
Diego put his face very close to the screen. "Yeah, no shit it's the FBI building, but why the hell did it just blow up? Wait—the car—Kennedy . . . he's driving away. They didn't kill him?"
Images on the screen began to crackle and change. There was Kennedy, gesticulating wildly at a podium. Newspaper headings: SOVIETS BEHIND DALLAS BLAST! JFK STRIKES BACK! Then Cuba, with the American forces blowing it to smithereens in the ironic heat of the Cold War. And finally war—nuclear war—and death, cold, unrelenting death . . .
Zara moved forward and clicked the television off. Silence enveloped them. She looked at Diego.
"Vanya. It'll always be Vanya."
He set his mouth in a grim line. "Now what?"
There was a pause.
"Now," said Zara slowly, "Herb is going to get us a briefcase. Then we're returning to '63 before Five throws a hissy fit."