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“How are things?” asked Landen from the doorway of the bathroom.
“Pretty crappy,” I told him, outlining what I had to do tomorrow.
“You’d really fry Joffy?” he asked.
“I’m not frying anyone,” I said, looking upward, “and I’m hoping it won’t come to that. Gavin looks like he knows what’s he’s talking about.”
“Joffy has family to miss him,” said Landen quietly. “Billions look to him for guidance. He has good work still to do on the planet. Theological unification is just one step on a greater journey.”
“That’s true,” I murmured, pulling up my trousers once the patch was on, “but the murderers have family that’ll miss them too, won’t they?”
“No, actually, they won’t,” said Landen, following me down the upstairs corridor. “I checked, and they killed most of them. Some of them even killed other families that reminded them of their real families. What I’m saying is that Joffy is worth fifty of them.”
“He wouldn’t agree with that sentiment.”
“No, but if you were to ‘accidentally’ drive the righteous man to the wrong airfield or were delayed or took a wrong turning or something, no one would ever think bad of you for it.”
“Don’t imagine I haven’t thought of it,” I said with a deep sigh as we walked into the kitchen, “but Miles made me promise. Maybe Joffy is the price we have to pay in order to find the answer as to the meaning and purpose of existence.”
“It’ll be a waste of a good Joffy. I don’t think God has any more idea than you or I about what’s going on.”
Landen had made this point before. He called it the “Nihilist Deity Viewpoint by Proxy” approach. We walked into the kitchen, and I filled the kettle.
“Perhaps He is just a part of the riddle of existence. Perhaps we all are.”
“Tea or coffee?”
“Tea. Think of it this way: A single brain cell has no intelligence, but in company it can do extraordinary things. Perhaps the entirety of existence is the true, unifying intelligence that drives what occurs—for a reason that is quite beyond our understanding, or even to a higher plane where the concept of understanding is laughably redundant.”
It was an interesting concept. Mycroft had often theorized that the whole of existence was so large and hideously complex that it must be sentient. And if this were so, then it must have a truly warped sense of humor and have an abiding love of math and hydrogen—and a deep loathing for order.
We stood in the kitchen for a few minutes in silence.
“Any word from Millon or Friday?” I asked.
“On their way back. It didn’t sound as if they had much luck. Our math geniuses are hard at work. There was a panic earlier when Tuesday took Gavin to meet Jenny, then found she wasn’t there. I made up some story about her being off at a sleepover.”
It was one of our standard excuses.
“She does a lot of sleepovers.”
“I know. Damn that Aornis.”
I looked down at my tattoo, then noticed that I had a Band-Aid on the back of my hand—a new one, next to the tattoo. I frowned, then lifted up the corner of the Band-Aid, read part of the words beneath and stuck it down again. I looked at the clock. It was just past six.
“Landen,” I said quietly, “we should have a family meeting, here in the kitchen at exactly eight o’clock—and bring the cordless drill and some screws.”
“Why?”
“I can’t say.”
“You can tell me.”
“No, I can’t say because . . . I don’t know.”
35.
Thursday: Aornis
