Peter Liu - Bald New World

“Oh we know alright,” one of them declared, prominently showing off the brand logo of Zhang Zhang on his arm.

They took off Leyton’s wig and started cutting off his scalp. Even though I didn’t like the show and had never bothered watching an episode, I couldn’t help but shudder at the sacrilege and the mockery of it all. The actor remained tranquil, or at least clung to it until the pain became overbearing. At first, it was a discomfiting gesture, followed by clenched brows. Within a few seconds, he was howling, unable to control himself. Blood had splattered everywhere and as the screaming intensified, he shouted, “Father! Into your hands I commit my spirit.” A knife was thrust through his mouth to silence him for eternity.

I shut off the camera, wanting to delete the memory from my head.

Voltaire put his arm on my shoulder.

“Now we take care of another impostor.”

They brought the fake Larry in. I dropped the camera and refused to film, rushing back to my room. I couldn’t watch Larry be killed twice, even if this one wasn’t real. A minute later, there was a chime on my door. I ignored it, but it rang multiple times.

“What do you want?!” I asked.

The door slid open and it was Beauvoir. “You shouldn’t let it bother you so much,” she said.

“It’s a massacre!” I answered.

“It’s a political statement,” she replied. “Voltaire is the oldest of us and has seen the worst of it. He knows what he’s doing.”

“Murdering people on live television?”

“That’s what we’ve been driven to. It’s the only way to get people to take notice. Do you know what happened to that man who tried to enslave you at the cricket races?”

“No.”

“He’s in a coma because he suffered too much brain trauma during your match. He might as well be dead. Do you regret what you did?” she asked.

“Different situation.”

“How?”

“That was for my survival. What did Jesus ever do to you?”

She smiled and said to me, “I wondered after you. You were so beat up when I first met you. Cricket matches don’t suit you.”

I took a deep breath and kept my eyes away from her. “How is Tolstoy?”

“Good. Busy. He has lots to do in Gamble Town.”

“This is twice you saved my life.”

“What do you mean?”

“They were going to cut me up if you hadn’t sent Voltaire.”

“I couldn’t just let them kill you.”

“Thank you.” I stared at my Pinlighter. “The only thing I’ve ever been good at is taking pictures and shooting movies. I can’t believe I just shot a murder.”

“I like your movies.”

“You’ve seen them?”

She nodded. “After you left, Voltaire asked me to learn as much about you as I could.”

“Why?” I asked, surprised by the revelation.

Right when she was about to answer, Voltaire came up from behind her. “Beauvoir, Tolstoy needs to talk to you. Call him.”

Beauvoir nodded and slipped away.

“How many dead?” I asked.

“The death of every celebrity is worth 10,000 corpses,” Voltaire replied and it was sad to admit that people felt closer to the stars than their own family and friends. “We’ve almost arrived. Get yourself ready.”

“For what?”

“You have a choice to make. But I need to present all the parameters for you to be able to make an informed decision.”

What was he talking about?

“You want an extra suit of armor? Never know when stray bullets might come your way in Los Angeles,” Voltaire said.

II.

I felt like I was in the middle of a funeral procession. Five black limousines took us to the Institute. All the billboards, advertisements, and personal TVs were focused on the pogrom on television. There’d never been anything like it, not live, not without editing the way I used to do for everything broadcasted from the African Wars. People got to see brains and guts spilling without FX artists to filter everything with dramatic poise.

All the channels had multiple layers of commentary. Everyone wanted to know, who was doing this? All fingers seemed to point at the Colonel and Zhang Zhang .

Freeway traffic was at a surprising minimum and I soon recognized the hills to the side of me as those near the Absalom Hair Institute. I didn’t know what Voltaire had in store for me, but I would find out soon enough. He had on crimson armor that resembled a space suit, hexagons and octagonal plates turning him into a blocky warrior. It seemed an eternity ago when Larry first asked me to come to the Institute so I could pick up that hair sample and meet Rebecca. Those seemed like bloody simple times in comparison.

III.

When we arrived, dozens of his white-haired brothers and sisters were already there, attired in battle suits. There were similar facial features between all of them, highlighted by the hair, though there was enough variance to emphasize their differences. They warmly greeted Voltaire as he arrived, pumping their fists, thrilled by the arrival of their brother and leader.

“Any casualties here?” Voltaire asked.

“None,” one of his brothers replied. “The Institute members offered little resistance.”

“Their drones?”

“We infected their systems with the help of the traitor.”

Traitor? Who were they talking about?

“The bombs?” Voltaire queried.

“We’ll have them ready within the hour.”

“Excellent work, Hawthorne,” Voltaire said. “Gather your group and dissipate. We will meet at Destination Zero in three days.”

I had no idea what Destination Zero was, but Hawthorne and his buddies sprinted into place.

“They all know what this place represents,” Voltaire said to me. “Even Larry to a certain extent had an idea of what they did here. But you. You’ll get to see with virgin eyes.”

I remembered Plath telling me she’d been raised in Los Angeles. “You lived here?”

“This used to be Chao Research Facility Number 07,” he answered. “This is a homecoming for many of us.”

We walked through the lobby where I’d first seen Rebecca. Dead bodies were splayed against the walls. Many researchers had their necks slit open.

“Why do you have to kill all of them?” I asked.

“The name on the outside has changed, but the people inside haven’t. There are others who must still be hunted down, those who were lucky to be absent.” I was reminded of Rebecca. “Do you know how many they’ve killed?”

“Can you explain what the hell is going on?”

“Wait five minutes and I will show you,” Voltaire said.

We arrived at a huge elevator. Twelve others came aboard including Beauvoir who was staring at her feet, curling her hair behind her ear several times. She wore thin black armor that cleaved to her body and reminded me of a Kevlar corset. The elevator descended. Voltaire spoke to them in a foreign language I didn’t understand. They laughed heartily. Some made odd gesticulations my way. There was more laughter.

When we reached the bottom floor, Dr. Asahi approached, saw me, and demanded, “What’s he doing here? He can’t see me!”

She was the traitor. But why had she betrayed her fellow researchers? What could Voltaire have offered her?

“Dr. Asahi. I assure you, you have nothing to be afraid of. Nick here will not expose your involvement.”

“How can I be sure of that?”

Voltaire eyed two of his brothers. They grabbed her and dragged her away.

“What are you doing? Where are you taking me?!” she shrieked. “You can’t do this to me! I played it straight with you! I always did my best to help you!”

“When it was convenient,” Voltaire murmured. “Just like you conveniently betrayed your colleagues when it was inconvenient to be on their side.”