Tal Klein - The Punch Escrow

Fuck it. If this is it, at least she’ll know I was there until the end. Till death do us part .

I turned back to my wife. “I love you. I’m not going anywhere.”

“While I can’t vouch for the veracity of the first, I certainly can assure you, your second statement is a patent falsehood, Mr. Byram.” Taraval’s head appeared in the window of the crane booth above us. “Where is your doppelgänger? ” he yelled down, a Cheshire cat–smile forming on his lips.

Sylvia, please forgive me for what I am about to do .

“You should know, asshole!” I yelled back. “You killed him in Costa Rica!”

I knew that would hit Sylvia like a punch to the gut, but I needed her reaction to help cement Taraval’s belief in the ruse. The element of surprise was the only advantage I could afford Joel 2.

“Dead?” he scoffed. “From such a minor head wound? Why, I thought you Byrams were made of sterner stuff.” Turning to Sylvia, he said, “Not to worry, my dear. You can always make yourself another one when we arrive at our destination.”

“She’s not going anywhere! ” I shouted.

Taraval shook his head. “Oh, but I beg to differ, young man. You and I, Mr. Byram, we are on opposite ends of the existential spectrum. Like the rest of your contingent back there, and much of humanity—you are hopelessly addicted to foolishness. You are a man indelibly tethered to his wife, his job, his things. To me, however, the name tag on this bag of meat I wear, William Taraval, means nothing. He is merely a runtime library. His identity has no significance; his properties are expendable. One could alter me, even delete me from the glacier, but nothing will undo my actions.”

I now grokked my part in the game. Mine was the task of keeping Taraval occupied, distracting him from his task at hand. For whatever reason, he needed someone to grasp his genius . Maybe he thought that if I understood his plans, others would be convinced by proxy.

“Come on!” I called up to him, really laying on the disbelief. “What could you possibly do that can’t be undone by someone else?”

Taraval’s mouth quivered, appalled I could even suggest such a thing. Direct hit . “Very well, Mr. Byram. Allow me to elucidate.”

OH L’AMOUR

WHILE I WAS ATTEMPTING to keep Taraval talking, Joel 2ran back to the Levantine van, frantically trying to open the console where Moti had placed the grenade.

“What are you doing?” Zaki asked as Joel 2started banging on the panel, absurdly trying to break through the bulletproof molding.

“Trying to save your lives,” Joel 2said. “I need to get in there. Can you open this for me?”

“Joel, whatever you think you’re doing, don’t do it,” Pema urged him from her seat beside Ifrit. “That grenade is a prototype for a reason. The operating range is too close for safety; it’s just as risky for the wielder as it is for the target. There’s no Escrow, either. If the mechanism fails at any point, you could kill yourself.”

“But you were willing to risk Moti’s life?” he asked.

“Nobody does anything without Moti saying,” Zaki said impassively. “You want your little toy, go ask him for it.”

Joel 2banged against the console cover in frustration and ran outside to find Moti. Fortunately, he was directing his team only a few steps away.

“Continue to strafe until you find a clear nonlethal shot,” Moti directed his team. “You kill him, I kill you.”

“We need to turn the power off!” Joel 2yelled from behind him. “He’s going to clear everyone here!”

Moti turned around. “What are you talking about?”

Joel 2tried to keep his voice calm. “Taraval expanded the crane’s ecophagy cage. He’s going to clear everyone! All of us”—he pointed at the island to the east of them—“all of Manhattan, maybe. Eight million people. Who knows how far those fucking nanos will go before they run out of juice? We need to kill the power to this whole fucking place right fucking now!”

“Shit,” Moti said. “No wonder it was so easy to find him. Pull back!” he ordered his team. “Back with me in the van right now!”

“I need you to give me the grenade,” Joel 2told him.

“What? Forget about it. It’s a suicide mission.”

“Give me. The grenade,” Joel 2insisted. His resolve was complete, confident. Despite Sylvia’s deceptions and lies, despite his own self-doubt, despite his existential crisis, Joel 2still loved our wife. Maybe more than he loved himself. And like me, he was ready to prove it. Love makes you do crazy shit.

Moti studied the determined look on Joel 2’s face as rain pattered slightly on their tac vests. I’d like to tell you that what he saw in my doppelgänger’s eyes somehow moved the Levantine spy, making him particularly sensitive to our cause. That would have been nice. But to be honest, I believe what happened next was merely Moti’s pragmatic approach to ensuring his team walked away from this thing alive.

“Let’s go,” he told Joel 2, and started walking back toward the van. Inside, he walked to the front section where Pema and Ifrit sat. He put his hand around Pema’s neck. Joel 2was afraid he might snap it, but Moti just held her by her throat and coolly stated, “Contact Corina Shafer and tell her that if she cuts the power to the Chelsea Piers TC right now, then she has a deal. Understand?”

Pema nodded. “Understood.”

Moti released her. “Zaki! Why is everyone not back here yet? Go out there and get them here right now!”

The big man was already out of the van and sprinting toward the freight yard.

Moti then walked back over to the locked compartment. It opened at his touch. He gently removed the grenade, examining it. Contemplating the consequences.

“Tell me, Joel, do you know what a shofar is? Once, outside Jericho—”

“I don’t care,” Joel 2said, impatiently grabbing the grenade from his hand. “How do you work this thing?” he asked Pema.

THE LASKER TRAP

THE GRENADE was significantly heavier than it looked. This made it rather awkward for Joel 2to run with—especially given the grave reminders Pema had etched into his mind about what might happen if he dropped the thing. Its titanium trisulfide coating was smooth, almost gelatinous to the touch—in other words, dangerously slippery. The rain wasn’t helping matters.

He was careful to stay behind containers, duck around trucks, and crawl under conveyors. Anything that would give him cover. His path was wisely indirect, moving around rather than toward me. Finally he arrived behind Taraval’s crane. Thanks to me, the mad scientist was still expounding upon religious philosophy and historical precedent and justifications of things that “must be done.” It was all hogwash, but I made sure to maintain eye contact. Keep talking, crazyhead .

As Taraval continued his stupid soliloquy, Joel 2climbed one-handed up the ladder leading to the conductor’s cabin. Considering the metal rungs were slick with raindrops and he was carrying an untested weapon of mass destruction (though I did not realize it in that moment), it wasn’t just difficult—it was terrifying. Worse, I had to keep my eyes on Taraval, who was well into his rant now.

“If only people adhered to the fundamental tenets of human progress rather than the dogmatic commandments of the so-called arbiters of justice, the world would be a better place. But alas, pivotal deviations from standard operating procedure that pioneers such as Corina Shafer have cultivated are nowadays handled by fat-cat legislators and litigators. Innovation has been distilled to its least common revenue-generating denominator. Our generation has lost its spirit, and I have lost my patience, Mr. Byram.” Taraval turned back to the conductor’s console, tapping a few icons. “Sylvia, my dear, you’re up.” He raised the crane’s magnet then turned it off, hauling her body into the conductor’s booth. The magnet lowered again, until it was about halfway between me and the booth.