FILTERS 17
SUMMER
Space. There's a thought.
Andrew hears cicadas. Fruit flies have been to space. And ants. And honeybees. Cicadas haven't. He sees them in the trees, soft breeze and song of summer, chorus warm with katydids. He could take one and send it high, maybe even to space.
"My physics professor speculated on the applications of control to space travel, I have the notes and everything, but I should have taken it more seriously."
James shrugs. "You've had a busy month."
"Yeah, and I'm considering it now. How easy is it to get a spacesuit? Actually. . . what if I don't even need that? The barrier protects me. Maybe I'd only need oxygen. Maybe I wouldn’t ev–"
"When we thought you were bulletproof you didn't feel the need to go get shot. You are resilient, but that might end in the cold vacuum." James puts one hand up to his neck and plays the gasping cosmonaut. With the other he reaches out to Andrew, who smiles distractedly.
"I don't know. Think about this. I can stare at the sun without issue, I don't sweat anymore, I can hold my hands in fire and when we were at Don's for Christmas you saw me outside in the snow in shorts and bare feet and I didn't feel any discomfort. It was like the pan I grabbed, I could tell how cold it was, it just didn't register as something I needed to care about. You said The Haze cleansed radiation, well since I gained control I haven't been sunburned. Maybe radiation doesn't affect me, so maybe that cold vacuum won't."
James is in thought. "I guess we must consider that, but without a safe method to verify the extent of your protections it would be best to avoid the risk."
“You sound like a lawyer.”
They laugh.
"I agree, of course,” Andrew continues, “Canton could get me a spacesuit."
"Yes he could, but–"
"But we don't know if he can be trusted. I could go to him in disguise. I bet he'd still give me one. What do you think about space?"
"If you can take equipment to orbit, let alone farther, then space would be a powerful use of control; indeed it could be the very best."
"The best?"
"As-is, a manned expedition to Mars will happen in the next few decades, but projects at the scale that Canton believes is possible with control would take a manmade solution to the rocket equation without, and there is no guessing the timeframe on that. If you can regularly put ships in orbit before they have to spend fuel? The good of that is in the best sense undefined. You would facilitate rapid colonization of the Moon and Mars, and your impact on posterity would be as unique as it is profound."
"So I should work for Epitaxial."
"I'm sure Elon Musk would love to have you, but we already know what Canton wants."
"There's still that question of trust. Assuming I can trust him, which I do not, it would be obvious if a controller is working for him. When I'm done with school I'm going to have to announce I'm not playing professionally and that's going to be news, and then everyone will connect the dots once I'm at Epitaxial."
"Canton's one of the wealthiest men in the world and he surely did not reach that place without the ruthlessness you can see in his fights, but there is a difference. He is a man. You have infinite leverage relative to him; you could tear Epitaxial to the ground with him inside, and he will know that. I also think he has the right temperament. I've watched his interviews and listened to him on podcasts and he is quite active on social media. He strikes me as trustworthy even without a sword above his head. Furthermore, if you're working for him, you will be helping him achieve his dreams, he would want to protect you if anything, and as he is a man of considerable influence, having him as your ally could be the greatest way to protect your identity. He will easily be able to compensate you without knowing who you are, if you chose, and if you did divulge your secret, he will no doubt have a way to pay you without anyone knowing it's through him. Or he may have another solution we have not yet thought of."
"You're right. I guess I'm going to work with John Canton."
James nods, then hmms.
"What?" asks Andrew.
"All those things you don't have to worry about that everyone else does? Are you sure you need to eat? Or drink? Or breathe?"
Andrew exhales and waits.
Cicada song fills the office.
State championships. Michael allows 4 hits in 5 games. Finals against Loganville at Truist, Andrew eyes the pennants. Metal, white text, blue league flags and red world flags – 1995 – 1996 – 1997 – 1998 – 2021 – and he sees the pitch and his brother's final victim of the day leave the box shaking his head and the team vaulting the dugout rails and throwing their gloves up in the outfield and meeting on the mound to celebrate. Pizza after, packing Piu Bello and overflowing into parking where boxes sit on cars and parents pull out camp chairs, some with faded covers from years spent in the backs of vans and SUVs. A single napkin dances over asphalt; it came from none of the players. These really are the boys of summer, they're covered in dirt and streaks of eyeblack, add a little grease to the glory. Michael's grin doesn't leave his face, the team uproariously recalling every out-of-their-league batter crossed blind at 98 heat into 80 breaking. In another time he would have looked destined for early Tommy John but arms don't fall off anymore.
In the cooling cab of his father's truck Andrew watches the team file into the bus. He can see the heat rising from the seats in the field but he could have guessed it from his few years spent in those stifling boxes. The players quickly pull down windows, he watches one reach for the release handles and whip his hands off hot metal. They all return to Truist, the team taken into the lower tunnels to stand behind home plate, cameras showing the state champions on the jumbotron as Brian Snitker and the rest of the Braves congratulate them and stand together for the anthem before a 7-0 routing of the Marlins. They stand to leave, Andrew sees birds circling, waiting to descend on the seats for the popcorn peanut and sunflower detritus of the crowd and he sees a young woman with a white Adidas rain jacket tied around her waist and he sees a young man in sunglasses and a red hat with US flag.
He calls Emilia from his bed. He listens to her describe her day, laughs when she shouts esa perra cerrarse. He wonders if she knows the fear he feels, and wishes he could fall asleep to the sound of her voice.
Another drive to Gainesville, another stop at Publix to wait for their parents, another drive to the dorms and cheery conversation with Susan who asks "You're moving out, Andrew?"
"Yeah, special dispensation, part of me coming."
She's wearing the national championship shirt. "I'd say it paid off!"
He carries his belongings in two trips to his car, then makes the short walk to the complex building with his brother's dorm. Andrew takes a box from Michael's car and passes him in the hall on the way to the suite four baseball players will share, one of whom is already there and recognizes him.
"Hey, you're Andrew Black! Oh, Michael Black, duh. My little brothers play baseball but they're a lot younger than me. Oh, um, I'm Javier."
Andrew smiles and sticks his hand out. "Michael's got all the talent, I just gotta run fast." something familiar hit in the name that Andrew now recalls. "Javier Hernández? You're the catcher, right? Are you José Hernández' son?"
"Yeah, yeah, that's my dad." he says with a smile.
"Wow. I saw him crush a home run when he was with the Cardinals, like ten years ago right after they won the World Series."
"Oh, yeah! Don Black's your uncle! I got to meet him back then. He was towering over me. Man you really got a family."
"Hey, your dad's still one of those quiet favorites in St. Louis, and I've seen that clip of you on YouTube catching that kid trying to steal second. You got it too, man."
Javier waves his hand and says "He wasn't fast enough."
"No kidding." says Andrew as Michael comes back in. "This is that guy you sent me that Jomboy clip of–"
"Yeah I know!" says Michael, "Cool, right? I can't wait for next spring."
Andrew says "Me too. I fucking hate football."
Javier laughs nervously, "What, really?"
"Nah, I like playing just fine. It's everything else. But it's what I'm good at, so."
Andrew drives behind his parents to the condo they purchased on Bivens, truck pulling a U-Haul trailer full of Ikea boxes. The condominium development could be called a complex but really it's a single split column of townhouses slightly offset with the curve of the east shore of the lake. A narrow parking lot is ahead of the garages that are the same light blue as the three-floor condos, mid-century modern with concrete accents that just evoke Brutalism. He carries two furniture boxes by ratchet straps, walking over neat and faded but clean red tile, around well-cared-for bushes and flowers and young palm trees in pots, down a short staircase with wrought iron railing. He hears the life that surrounds the lake and sees it in the field and he sees something else. Something half-buried in mud in the marsh banks near the trees, shrouded in water-clovers. How did it get there? How has nobody noticed? He passes sliding glass, entering the open living space-kitchen that continues through the ground-entry semi-basement unit to the lakefront side where his mother stands in the sunroom. They're at the northern edge of the terraced housing, where the condos meet a small forest that Andrew has been in before, its far side to the back of the veterinary college. A group of canoes drift languidly across the water. Still far from it.
"I'm glad we purchased this." says his mother.
"Thank you again, although it feels like saying thanks isn't enough."
"Well, with you and your brother earning those scholarships we had the money. . . and your father is right, this is a good investment."
"Yeah, people here love to mention how property values keep going up."
"Mmhm. Is Emilia going to move in?"
"I don't know. I'd like her to, but if she lived with me, she would notice."
"If you think you're going to get married you have to tell her, Andrew."
Andrew thinks of the way Emilia’s voice gets thick when she whispers duérmete.
His father is still at the truck. "I don't know if we are. I love her, but I keep thinking about what dad said about this being a burden to know. He's right. I don't know if I could push that on her. I already don't like the risk it poses to all of you, adding someone to that feels wrong. You can't fly away from this. So I think sometimes maybe I should break up with her. Really I think I should have never dated her to begin with."
His mother shakes her head. "All that extra time to think and you're being twice foolish."
It almost stings. "What do you mean?"
"You would ruin what you have because you might get caught? Who's to say the world is ever going to learn who you are? Yes, many powerful people are trying but that doesn't mean they'll succeed. You are one person in seven billion, Andrew, and they're not just looking for you, they're looking for Redhat, and given there are two of you, they may know of others who haven't been so high-profile. So you would end it on that chance? And wallow in that mistake every day and long night as you imagine what could have been? And that's not even the big thing that you've ignored. When you tell her, she will want all the more to be with you. She will not care if you are caught. She will not care if people know. She will understand why and love you more when you tell her."
"She'll be afraid of me."
"Of course she will. But she will love you for it."
"Do you?"
His mother laughs and this makes Andrew laugh and they hug.
They assemble the furniture. Dining table and chairs, coffee table and couch. The mattress that will see little use rolled-out and off-gassing beside the boxes of the bed frame and desk-dresser and office chair. They finish mounting the television to the living room wall and leave for a late lunch, then his parents are back on the road, headed again for their house on Tybee Island.
He opens the sliding glass of the sunroom, the warm and humid air floats over him. He has held it in place since he found it, and he walks into the trees, flashlight in hand. He doesn't hurry, this building also has cameras and there's no sense in breaking them. Let this look like a casual summer stroll, which it will be when his work is done. He can see the flows of the marsh in the field and he walks carefully to avoid the water. Through bushes and tall grass, the night full of the sounds of tree frogs. Eventually he can go no farther without entering the water, and he clicks off the flashlight and takes himself without flight. He's in shorts and his feet are bare and he doesn't mind the mud, but this convenience takes no effort. With the barrier around him he takes quicker steps, through deep growth that falls unyielding to his strides until he finally comes upon the alligator.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
He turns the flashlight on again, prepared for its size as he draws it to the surface but still impressed by the scaled monster longer than his father's truck. There is a protocol to this for others, call the police, who shout call the fuckin’ governor, who sends the state guard and suddenly it’s a jurisdictional circlejerk of whose job is it to shoot the fuckin’ gator. He can do better. He didn't want to kill the bear, but he doesn't regret it, and he would do it again. The bear didn't deserve to die and neither does this alligator, but if it hurts or kills someone as it so easily could, well that would be his fault and besides, if he doesn't kill it now he will just call the police which would lead to Dante’s bureaucratic circus. The carcass would be collected for research, but such creatures have been studied for fifty years and they'll collect others this summer. The here and now is his prerogative: he doesn't want a circus, and he thinks it best no one ever knows, best no one ever fears.
He turns the flashlight off and severs the head and sends the body as dust over water-clovers he stirs with a foot before walking back. He watches as a car parks near his condo before a figure walks from it to the sliding glass doors of his unit, peering inside and knocking and raising a phone and knocking again. He walks more quickly, the figure waits, turning back to the steps and sitting, phone still raised, then they abruptly stand again and walk around the back. He knows it's Emilia before the flashlight catches her. He says "Hey!"
"Andrew! I was just trying to call you."
"I thought I heard someone, I've been out walking, I left my phone inside."
"I wanted to surprise you."
He feigns shock by making his mouth into a big “O” then grins. "You have surprised me. Do you want to go look out at the lake?"
"Yeah" she smiles and puts her arm around his waist, and they continue to the back where they better hear than see the water, no moonlight cast upon it, summer’s song upon them. Emilia turns and looks up at him, and he down at her. She wants to say something, he says nothing, caught in her eyes.
"That night you made me feel like you stopped loving me all at once. That was the worst night of my life. But you do love me, right?"
He looks out to where the water should be, unsure, wanting to pick the right words.
"Yes, I love you,” he says, watching her finger scratch a line into the dirt.
"Then why sometimes do you act like such a bastard?"
"I can't tell you."
"You won't tell me."
"Yes."
"I feel like–I know I should be mad and say that's not good enough, so why don't I feel that way? Why is that good enough for me? Is it because there's something wrong with me and I would let you treat me however you want? Or is it because you're the only person I've ever been in love with. Maybe I’m just crazy. I can hear my mother saying to me 'Emilia that güero is acting like a cretino, he won’t tell you things, you’ve never even seen him sleep Emilia, something is wrong with him and you think you can fix it and that means you are the one who is stupid.'"
Andrew says nothing.
"I have never met anyone like you and that sentiment is so–so common, so vapid–but true in a way I can't explain. What is it that I see in your eyes? Sometimes I want to drag one of my friends to you and have her stare in your eyes because I think then she would finally get it when I tell her, but I guess I'm afraid she really would get it and she would fall in love with you right there and what then? What is it that I feel with your arms around me, no. . . it's always here. It's always here."
Andrew says nothing.
"It's always when I think of you, it's here right now, just standing with you. God, damnit, Emilia. What is wrong with you? Andrew what is wrong with you? What is wrong with me? What is that? How do I know that you know exactly what this feeling is and exactly why I feel this way, and somehow I know that's exactly why you won't tell me. What is that, or why is that? Do you not tell me because you don't trust me?"
"I trust you. It's everybody else."
She shakes her head. "What are you talking about? Why–why would that matter? Who cares what people think about you?"
"It matters."
"You say you love me and you say you trust me, if you think there's some point in the future you could tell me this then why can't we just skip the wait? What could it be that other people matter to us? Is it football, is–"
"It's not fucking football. Coming here is the best thing that ever happened to me. Because I got to meet you. But once I graduate that's it. I'm not going into the NFL."
"That’s all my mother talks about. He’s crazy but he’s going to be rich, Emilia. I tell her I don’t care and she says Why? But really, Andrew, why?"
"I don't quite know how yet, but I will find a way to meet John Canton and work with him at Epitaxial."
"Psychic break. Is that why? Is everything about that?"
"Yes, and no. It's part of why."
"Do you promise you're going to tell me, eventually?"
"Yes, I promise. But if that's not good enough," he shakes his head, "I understand if you want to end things"
"It shouldn't be, but it is. But I don’t know what I’m going to tell my mother.” She wraps her arms around him and he feels somehow small, but still right.
They're in the living room.
"How was your day, with all the moving?" she asks.
"Well, took everything out at the dorm this morning, helped Michael move in, then–"
She kisses him and pushes him back, her hands move to his face and his hands to her hips, pulling her close.
Andrew sits back on the couch, the television on but muted. Emilia is asleep, her head touching his thigh. He showers and changes and takes the white-marked key and hooks it into her keyring, then kneels beside her.
"I need to go to the gym, but after that I want to spend the day with you."
"Okay” she mumbles.
"You have a key now, it's on your ring. It's got a white band on it."
Her eyes open and he leans down and kisses her and leaves. Out jogging in the rain, 13th to 16th, Archer to Center Drive, past the hospital with endless figures, across the north lawn to the stadium and Heavener where he swipes-in at the front and grabs a towel in the lockers and strips, his clothing placed inside one machine and his shoes hung on another, reading his phone while he waits for everything to dry.
He greets the trainers and gets to work. Stretches to start, then shrugs and skullcrushers, he sees a figure in the distance entering the building and heading to the lockers, changing and out on the floor and coming into sight as he's doing deadlifts. Andrew has seen pictures and watched scouting videos but Robert Smith's similarities with Devaris are more apparent in person. Minus the confidence, same build, complexion, hair and beard. Same stare. "What's up, Drew!"
"Hey, Robert."
He drops the weights and sticks a hand out and as Robert takes it Andrew sees a flash in his second sight and hears a single peal of thunder and where there was the human-shaped void there is now a form most faintly gray in a moment he knew at once only was one-sided.
"You just get here?" says the gray figure. Black to gray, gray and white, what does that mean? Time might have slowed, time might have stopped. He knows he needs to do something or he might be frozen for good.
"Yeah, pretty much," he says, lifting the weights again. Slow movements to impress false exertion.
"You always here this early?"
Slowly down. "Yeah, what else would I be doing?"
"Sleeping for another hour?"
Slowly up. "Not my style."
Robert says "Yeah, same actually. I need like four hours and sometimes that's too much. You like that too?"
"Something like that."
"Cool, man, well I'm going to go talk to my trainer and get at it."
Andrew nods. He looks into the field and focuses on the gray, waiting to hear something else but nothing comes. He thinks about the woman, the tempest and the tides, the moment alone with her in that place. Is he a potential broken?
Clearly, as if spoken. Not broken. Lesser.
Lesser? Less than what? Me? What does that mean?
He spends the day with Emilia, wishing he could force out of mind the gray figure in the distance.
Routine resumes, jogging every morning to workout, breakfast and class. Most afternoons and every evening with Emilia, the time between spent with Robert, who joins him now on his evening runs. Andrew using them to watch constantly, waiting for something to finally show. On the fourth of July Andrew feels the pulse. Barranquilla, Colombia. Redhat interdicts in less than an hour. The words in his mind every day flash again. Not broken. Lesser. If broken are almost controllers, could there be almost broken? Some lesser form of control? Some weaker form of control?
He's watching fireworks with Emilia when his father texts him.
Major uptick in rumors today for obvious reasons. India and Japan.
He taps a reply then pockets his phone.
Something happened. Can't easily explain. 'Weak ones' might exist.
His phone vibrates but he doesn't check it until late that night when Emilia is asleep beside him.
Will look into.
Another evening, another run with Robert who struggled at first to keep up but has rapidly improved over two months of conditioning. From the condo to the campus, to Lake Alice and a stop at the Baughman Center for Robert to take a drink and catch his breath while Andrew admires the chapel, to the empty field they've started using to practice throws and catches.
Robert opens his bag to take another drink and asks "How many miles do you think you've run over the last year?"
"I don't know, couple thousand at least."
"You ever run a marathon?"
"Nah, but there were some nights where I realized after I was doing half-marathons just on normal runs."
"Damn. I guess that's what it takes to be the best."
Andrew shrugs. "You ready?"
Robert loudly exhales and nods, taking the football from his bag. Andrew does a few short hops then sprints, just seeing the ball in the twilight before catching it. This repeats, then they move to faster drills, short throws where Andrew catches and throws back and catches again. In the midst of this he throws it and he can just see Robert's hand sliding across the football and meeting air before the football that he had clearly lost was clearly drawn back into it.
Andrew runs up to him. "What the fuck was that?"
"What was what?" says Robert.
"I just saw the football move back into your hand. Are you a controller?"
"I don't know what you thought you saw, man–"
"Robert don't bullshit me. It's my job to spot the exact movements of a football fifty yards away and I saw you almost lose it and I saw it get pulled right back into your hand. Are you a controller?"
"Why's this fucking matter, man?"
"Because if you did that on primetime the least of your worries would be getting your ass banned from football and expelled."
Robert shakes his head and raises his arm and spikes the ball. "You can't snitch."
"I'm not a snitch."
"You cannot fucking snitch."
Andrew raises his hands back to emphasize, "I'm not going to snitch. We're a team, man, we're in this together, every bit of it. We don't have to talk about this but you can't fuck around."
The gray figure picks the ball back up. "I'm not a controller. I don't know what this is but I can't fly or lift buildings or any of that shit. I can just look at things and if I really want them to they move around."
"What do you mean, want, like a reflex?"
"Nah, man, I don't feel anything. It's like when I was a kid I'd pretend I was a Jedi and that maybe if I just wanted something enough it'd move to my hand. But it actually works."
Andrew remembers pretending he was a Jedi after he could actually move things. He laughs, "Yeah, I did that too."
"After that guy in Tampa I tried it again and it worked. But nah, I don't feel anything. It's just wanting it."
"Have you ever tried pushing it?"
"Yeah, but nothing happens. I can't move anything much bigger than a football, like one of those reusable bags for groceries is about it, but it's so slow, it's not like I could really use this to cheat, I can throw faster."
"Prove it."
"How could I prove it?"
"Exactly. They have no way of knowing you can't do more. You have to get a handle on it."
The first Thursday of August, the last night before fall camp. Andrew is showering before he takes Emilia to dinner. His phone chimes with an image message from his father.
Found him.
Dinesh Deshpande. They call him "Shajangali." He's in the middle.
A group stands behind a carcass. Andrew counts thirteen men shoulder-to-shoulder, together long as the dead tiger tip-to-tail. At their center is a man taller than the rest. He does not cover his fine beard and he does not cover his wild brown-and-black hair. He wears a navy shirt and beige pants and his feet are bare. Andrew looks at his face and something grows, something alongside his apprehension of another. A third. For all the recordings of Redhat he has known there is another thing here, a blooming, ineffable. Finally a face, finally a name. The screen dims from inactivity and as he taps to brighten it there's a flicker in the display and for a moment it's like everything that surrounds the man is static except for his eyes.
Andrew sees the bear and the alligator. In the flickered eyes Andrew sees himself.
Andrew knows. Grim satisfaction.