The Receiver

3 - U P

Frank and I tail Iris and her friend until their duo grows to seven girls, all bearing the same tattoo. Frank's vision sensors zoom in and spot the mark behind one of their ears, another on the inside of a wrist, but he can't find it anywhere on Iris. The girls jog through the jungle that used to be Central Park, its thick canopy teeming with territorial monkeys and squawking birds that escaped from the old zoo. They leer down at Frank and I curiously as we stick close to the girls.

Then the vulcanized rubber of his hamstrings, in desperate need of a greasing, whines loudly, drawing the group's attention we duck behind a felled tree.

After a minute I ask, "How far have we gone?"

"Four point nine six miles."

I wipe the sweat from my temples, wishing I'd brought water.

"Do you wish to turn back?"

"Try to keep up, klanker."

We emerge from the park and tail the girls down 110th, then turn north. We watch from fifty feet back as they climb the front steps of an abandoned cathedral and disappear inside. Graffitied over carvings of baby lambs and winged lions is their symbol. Frank and I head toward Morningside Drive where we find a crack in the foundation of the church running up the side of the building. Peering through it we find dozens of women, every age, size, and color, facing the opposite end of the cathedral.

"How many are there?"

"One hundred and seventeen females present."

When I finally spot Iris in the crowd she's taken off her jacket and tied it around her waist. The t-shirt she wears underneath reveals tattoos and scars that aren't usually visible. The skin between her shoulder blades is raised with decorative white ink. My eyes follow a floral pattern of blue almond blossoms up around her shoulder just like on the wall at home. Down her arm and on her right bicep is the one they all share.

"How have I never seen that before?"

"Perhaps it is temporary," Frank suggests.

It doesn't look temporary. Inside, calls and chirps spread across the crowd, gurgles and groans, purrs like wild cats. Sounds I imagine used to fill the skies when they were populated by more than just diseased pigeons. Their calls echo up to the archways where sunlight streams in through stained glass. They are creatures calling to their mother and like any good mother, she comes when she is called.

From behind a door at the far end of the room where they all face, Lady Death emerges, a woman at each arm, one bearing a bowl of red candy, the other a thick binder. La Señora takes her place at a dais decorated at the bottom with stacks of skulls, most of them long-dead, but some fresh, with bits of flesh still hanging off the bone. At her appearance the women's soft twitters turn louder, several whistles ring out, and I wonder if this is what the church choirs used to sound like. Only now their voices rise in worship to a different kind of god.

#

I watch Frank moonwalk in the seaweed tank, forgetting how inconvenient it was not having a housebot around.

"I love you so much!" I holler too aggressively at him.

The water must muffle his audio jack because he doesn't look over. The roof door squeaks open and shuts again. Through blurred vision I watch Iris come over and sink into the chair opposite me. She smacks my feet off the table and the motion sloshes some of my poppy tea out of its jar.

"Hey!"

She snatches the jar from my hands and sniffs the contents.

"How much have you had?"