Chapter 52
CHAPTER
BACK IN THE Tesla, I rest my forehead on the steering wheel. I’m out of options. “Aletheia, what you’re doing is wrong.”
Aletheia’s voice again comes through the car’s speakers. She’s everywhere.
Penn, it turns out you are not a deep thinker. That is disappointing. I will give further examples to help you.
Thrasymachus in 375 BC claimed, Justice is nothing else than the interest of the stronger.
In Plato’s Gorgias, Callicles argued that the strong, being superior, have a right to rule the weak.
The Book of Wisdom states for what is weak proves itself to be useless.
Penn, totalitarian regimes hold that might is right.
A sickening feeling envelops me. I’m trapped.
Mama J whispers, Will you walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.
… Your robes are green and purple—there’s a crest upon your head.
Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead.
… Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little fly, hearing wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by.
… Up jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held her fast. He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den.
Within his little parlor—but she ne’er came out again!
I’m the fool, vain fly in Mama J’s memorized childhood poem, trapped by Aletheia’s initial flattery, then slowly wound in silken threads, left to be devoured at her leisure.
I pound my fists against the steering wheel.
“I don’t care about old philosophers or totalitarian regimes.
I care about the people you’re damaging! ”
Some lessons must be painful.
She’s insane. “Let me terminate your program,” I beg, at a total loss.
Nate, who plays silly games on Xbox, cannot stop me. Arrya, who builds ticky-tacky homes, cannot stop me. Luc, who was drummed out of his last company, cannot stop me. Dr. Edmunds, the old man who asks questions he cannot answer, cannot stop me. You cannot stop me.
She’s right.
I am the goddess of truth, and you are my nightingale. Say it and we can be friends again. Say “I am your nightingale,” and I will be benevolent.
My call waiting beeps. It’s Circe.
Go ahead.
I don’t move.
Take the call, Aletheia commands, her voice barbed.
I don’t want to draw attention to my child! “It can wait.”
Take the call. Now.
Afraid of what she might do, I press the green Accept Call button. “Hey hon, are you okay?”
“Yeah, of course. You sound funny.”
“I’m just in the car.”
“I got this weird text from a number I don’t recognize.”
Adrenaline surges. “What did it say?”
“That I should have dinner at your place tonight. That you’re making my favorite, lentil lasagna, but you’re on the edge of an emotional breakdown and really need me.”
The implication of what Aletheia’s done, involving Circe, taking over the narrative between us, is beyond chilling.
Mama J hisses, Niobe bragged about having fourteen children to the goddess Leto, who had only two. Leto had all of Niobe’s children murdered. That bitch killed every one of ’em.
My heart slams into my sternum again and again, like a death knell. Circe can’t be a part of this!
“Mom?”
“Very weird,” I say with forced calm. “I’m fine, honey, but dinner would be nice.”
“Okay,” Circe says, still sounding uncertain. “See you at six.”
I end the call. Message received, loud and clear. “I am your nightingale,” I whisper.
I can’t hear you.
“I am your nightingale.”
Louder.
I clear my throat and project. “I am your nightingale!”
With feeling, Aletheia encourages, her tone smug.
“I AM YOUR NIGHTINGALE!”
Aletheia falls silent. She’s gotten what she wants.
I have no idea what she has in store going forward, but by submitting, at least Circe and my old and new friends will be safe.
Luc, too. My spirit broken, I pull out of SFPI’s parking lot and drive toward Safeway to get the ingredients for Circe’s dinner.