Perhaps Not

(Excerpt)

"Where is that lamp?" Jenny called, across the dump.

"The what?" Mark shouted back, sifting through a pile of flower pots.

"The lamp! You know, that  cool one that you can operate with your mind."

Jenny bounded over to him. "Don't tell me that it's been taken..." She strode close, and put her head on his shoulder. Even though she was 17, Jenny stood taller than Mark. Mark, at 28, was still a pretty tall guy. Something about Normals, though -- they were all tall motherfuckers. Jenny's blond hair flew in to Mark's eyes. He left it alone. She hugged him around his waist, lifting him off the ground a little.

"Mooook," she whined. "C'mon, show me where the lamp pile is." He couldn't see it, but he knew that she was making her adorable little "frustrated" face of hers. He patted her nose over his shoulder.

"Okay," he said. She wouldn't even be able to use it, not without him around -- it was designed for telekinetics.

They trotted a few piles over, hand-in-hand. Jenny hummed 'Pop Goes the Weasel' softly. "Got that tune stuck in your head again, Jen?" She nodded.

"Better than 'John Jacob Jingleheimer-Schmidt'. Is there more than one verse?"

He didn't know. Merrily, they made their way to the lamp.

'Mook' was helping Jenny to furnish her first apartment. It was a sleezy little dump. He would have kept her at his place, but he couldn't think of a good cover-story for bunking with an underaged Normal. "When I'm 18," Jenny would say. "I'm going to wish that I could get married to you." Kind of pointless: she was sterile, a Normal.. the list just kind of petered out there, but not without having a lot of clout. 2/3 Normal women were sterilized at birth, to keep their numbers low. Without breeding, marriages were discouraged. Marriages between Type 2s and Normals were outright shunned -- prolly because the children they produced together came out feebleminded and sickly.

Jenny swung their clasped hands.

"Thanks," she said. "This dump was a great idea; discount stuff is ideal for my budget!" Yeah, but half the stuff in this dump was specifically for Type 2s. Not so helpful.

The lamp was drawing nearer; Jenny recognized this section.

In their pile so far, they had a wooden chair -- needed some glue; a hot plate -- only one element worked; a clay pot -- for a future plant (but would it survive in that dank little apartment?); and, potentially, the lamp. Mark hoped that he could con her in to one that she could operate herself.

She spotted it first.

"There!" she cried, sprinting over to it. She scooped it up, cradling it like a found babe, or a prized teddy bear. "Oh, Mark -- it's perfect," she cooed. Her shiny little eyes beamed down at him. "Make it glow..?"

Mark smiled. "It's daytime, doll. Won't be too effective." They'd come to the dump last time closer to closing.

Her expression conveyed all of the childlike wonder that his mind couldn't probe personally. Sometimes, he thought it would have been neat if he'd been a T-Type, and could both read minds, and move objects. "Please?" Her quiet desperation withdrew him  from his woolgathering.

"Aww-right," he said, feigning resignation.

In the daylight, the lamp was virtually useless. Jenny, nonetheless held the lamp up high, triumphant. She had prolly seen thousands of Type 2s do similar feats, but, somehow, she still had wonder for his performances. She hugged the lamp tightly. "I'll treasure it always, because it reminds me of you."

He closed the gap between them. Resting his head on her chest, they hugged awkwardly, the lamp poking them from the middle.

In that instant, a flood of Brainflow interrupted his thoughts. It took over, swarming every conscious part of his being; the images were blurry, but wholly hostile. He lost track of himself, giving over to the rage and confusion inside his head. The lamp exploded, killing Jenny instantly. Mark wasn't injured at all, seeing as the lamp blew up away from him. By the time he was released from the 'flow, all that was left of Jenny was a metal-riddled hunk of bleeding flesh.

Before the exact breadth of his anguish could take hold, the sender of the 'flow sent an image of himself: his old buddy, John Reilly.