Crache (17 page)

20

PREDICTA ABSURDUM

R
exx focuses on the screen of the Predicta, dials in the frequency and waits for the White Rain to drench him.

Nothing. Not even a sprinkle. He cranks up the volume and tries again, with the same result. He tries a third time, but the riboswitch refuses to flip.

The temporary reclade pherion. It has to be. It’s interfering with the RNA.

He pushes his eyescreens onto his forehead and digs at the blossom of pain behind his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

The boy standing on the split-rail fence is clearer. Rexx can make out the color of his hair, blond, and the longhorn stitch on the back pockets of the Rhinestone Blues jeans.

The woman is clearer too, blue suede jacket and spotless white hat emerging from the static as she draws closer and the blizzard thins. Bright red lipstick picture-framing a proud smile.

He can’t look . . . but can’t tear his eyes away. He knows what’s coming, but there’s no way to stop it. No way to change the station. His memory is wired to one channel. All he can do is close his eyes.

“Dad,” Mathieu said, “can we go to the rodeo on Saturday? Please?”

“No.”

Mathieu’s lips trembled, hurt and angry, as if he’d been slapped. “Why not? A lot of kids from school are going.”

“Because I said so.”

Mathieu’s eyes brimmed. His enthusiasm faltered. “But Mom promised. . . .”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I ain’t your mother.”

The tears retreated to higher ground. The pout hardened into resentment. Mathieu turned—“I hate you! You never let me do anything!”—and ran to his room.

That night, lying in bed, Jelena touched a hand to Rexx’s arm, resting her fingers on him the way she did piano keys. Lightly, delicately, but with absolute self-assurance and control. “I know you don’t want to expose him to the same things your father exposed you to. For good reason. But don’t you think it’s time he started deciding for himself what he does and doesn’t want to do?”

Rexx knotted the bedsheets in one hand. “Forget it. He’s not going to a rodeo.”

The pressure of her fingers increased. “Then you’re going to lose him. The same way your father lost you.”

His cheeks flushed. “Not the same way.”

“A different way, then. The result will be the same. Is that what you want?”

Rexx shut his eyes. He couldn’t identify the notes she played on his arm. Kernis, maybe. Or Messiaen. “No,” he finally said.

“It’ll be fun.” Jelena stroked his forearm. “Trust me. It won’t kill him. You’ll do more harm if you don’t let him go. . . .”

Hands trembling, Rexx checks on the rack of petri dishes he’s set up to culture the biopsy samples.

So far he’s got Macabro, the Silver Skeleton’s sugar skull grinning up at him from pink aspic. Another
pan de los muertos
sporoid. Cassa Nova’s ruby-fruit lips, juicy and ready to burst. If he plants a kiss on the petals, Rexx gets the impression they’ll smooch him back just as pretty as you please. Then there’s ginseng Barbie impersonating Raggedy Ann, dressed in the yarn hair, pinafore, and striped stockings that he remembers from his mother’s antique doll collection. Hundreds of shelved eyes, arranged in floor-to-ceiling rows, staring out at him, unblinking.

His hands shake in the gust of dead memories from his childhood.

There doesn’t seem to be a pattern to the ersatz mutations. No indication where the mothballed images are coming from or how they’ve been coded into the architext of the ecotecture.

“You find a DNA sequence yet for Raggedy Barbie?” he asks Hjert’s IA, Warren Peace.

“There isn’t one,” the IA says.

“Come again.”

“There’s no genetic component in the sample.”

“Then what the hell’s causing it to grow? What’s it
made
of?” He can’t seem to think straight. The inside of his skull is a hollow abscess, dry, feverish, infected.

The IA says nothing. It seems to resent being outsourced, is even more terse than Claire. The loss of Ida is wearing on him, a carbuncle of longing that matches the absence of the White Rain. The need, the cell-deep hunger, is the same. He craves the interactive piece of software as if it were a physical part of him that’s been amputated.

Just what is it about Claire that is habit forming? Their relationship—if it can be called that—leaves a lot to be desired. For one thing, outside of the interface with his biomed sensors and molectronics, there’s no intimate physical contact. Second, the IA is cold, distant. Maybe it’s just mirroring his self-imposed exile, reflecting back the isolation it sees according to some heuristic or mimetic subroutine that’s designed to put him at ease, make him feel better. On the upside, it’s dependable. It might not have much of a heart, or a soul, but it’s always there for him. Which is a lot more than can be said for some people. Pathetic as that is on his part, it counts for something.

Rexx pinches the bridge of his nose. “Any idea what’s causing this crap?” he asks Warren. “Where it’s coming from?”

He still doesn’t know if the source of the failures is external or internal. If the ecotecture has been infected via softwire download to the plants, through direct physical exposure to a mutagen, or if it was an accident, the result of an internal bug or error. Given the way that the mutation is manifesting, the images it’s generating, a design or production flaw seems unlikely. He’s fairly confident Barbie and Raggedy Ann weren’t part of the original project specifications. That makes it hard to believe the problem is the result of a random act of nature or coincidence. Which still leaves the barn door wide open for ineptitude. Or mischief.

And he still has no idea what he found during the autopsy. The lab isn’t equipped with a CNT sensor. He can’t cut into the culture specimens directly.

“Assuming the softwire link to Mymercia is still down,” Rexx says, “and that the ecotecture is effectively offline, it seems reasonable to conclude that the datastream responsible for the mutation is local.”

“Or that it was downloaded earlier and is only now being implemented,” the IA says, board stiff. “The molectronics in the warm-blooded plants are still fully functional. Executing new instruction sets.”

Converting digital data into chemical analogs. Altering DNA, and manufacturing proteins. Rexx returns his attention to Cassa Nova’s blossoming lips. What he’s seeing is digital information taking on physical form, adapting the strategy of biological information to migrate from an in-virtu environment to an in-vivo one. A kind of phase change, virtuality to reality. The way water vapor condensed, changing from a gas to a liquid.

“Is there an identifiable trigger?” he asks. “Something we can point to, at or near the time of the accident?”

“No. But the event might appear to be normal activity. If that’s the case, it could take a while to identify.”

The corners of Rexx’s mouth sag. What he’s looking at is the symptom of the problem. What he needs to nail down is the cause. Not only the physical cause, but the reason behind it. If there
is
a reason.

“Have you been able to come up with any discernible pattern to the growth we’re seeing?” he says.

“You mean a connection between the images?”

“Right. Some common thread that ties them together.” He has no clue what that might be. But if they can come up with a common denominator, maybe they can get to the bottom of what’s going on. Get some idea of where things are headed and what they can expect.

“I’ll set up a relational database.”

“Be sure to include symbolic information as well as visual and textual data in any cross-reference comparisons.”

If there is a message in the mayhem it might well be symbolic in nature, a type of graffitic or iconographic commentary.

“I’ll also search for religious or political associations,” Warren says. “If you think it will help.”

Rexx nods, mildly surprised. This is the first truly independent suggestion that the IA has offered. Maybe it’s finally warming to him, relaxing enough to open up and be more forthcoming.

“What do
you
think’s going on?” he says.

“Why do you ask?” The IA seems to retreat a step, defensive.

Rexx waits for a clammy wave of dizziness to taper off. “I just thought you might have a theory. A preliminary hypothesis of some kind.”

“Not at the moment.” Noncommittal.

Or evasive. Maybe. It’s hard to tell. “Not a problem.” Rexx raises his hands in a weak no-pressure gesture. “I was just curious. That’s all.”

Despite his intentions and best efforts, he can’t seem to shed his cauciness, the caucsure sense of entitlement that puts people on guard and leaves IAs aloof. People and sentient software alike can smell it a mile away. It’s almost as if his upper-clade past has a permanent stench associated with it, a territorial marker that people avoid so they won’t get pissed on.

“How’s tricks?” Naiana Hjert says, drifting into the lab. “Have you made any progress?”

She joins him at the rack of petri dishes, wedging herself next to him, uncomfortably close. The kind of oblivious disregard for personal boundaries that Rexx hasn’t had to deal with since Miss Wadstacken in the fifth grade. “Define progress,” he says.

“That sounds like a no.”

Rexx gestures at the petri dishes, which have taken on the carnival atmosphere of a combination freak show and amusement park. “It’s going to take time.”

Hjert scrunches her nose. “Time’s running out.”

“How much longer do I have?”

“Not much. Workers have started evacuating to the station. The first shuttle pod left a few minutes ago. Three more will be leaving in half an hour. There’s only one pod bay in the QZ, so the plan is to dock and unload a shuttle every ten minutes. It’s tight but doable.”

Rexx runs a quick mental calculation. Six shuttles per hour, at forty workers a trip, results in an evacuation rate of 240 workers per hour. There are approximately 900 on-site workers. Which gives him around three and a half hours. Four, with delays.

“I need more time,” he says.

“You’ve already had four hours. What makes you think four more, or forty more, is going to make any difference?”

“Because the process is accelerating. I’ve gathered more data in the last hour than in the previous three.” He licks at a drop of perspiration trickling down from his upper lip.

“Something new’s come up. I think you should—” Hjert frowns. “You look like shit.”

Rexx tries to smile. “Cold or warmed over?”

She studies him, her eyes narrowing. “What are you on?” she says after a moment.

He licks his lips again.

“Does it have a name?” she says.

“Not that you’d recognize.” He bites his lip to hold his tongue at bay.

“Designer, then. Built to order. Except you ran out, or can’t download it, because of the quarantine. So you’re fucked.”

“I’ll be fine—”

“Come on.” She grabs him by one arm, and tugs him away from the rack of petri dishes.

Rexx tries to jerk his arm free, but there’s nothing for him to use as leverage. His hands flounder and his feet thrash as the two of them tumble toward the door. “Let go of me, goddamnit! I need to stay here. There’s nothing you can do.”

His voice sounds shrill. But maybe it’s just the sudden torrent of blood in his ears, thinning and attenuating the words.

“Don’t worry.” She snorts. “I’m not interested in easing your pain. You can suffer, for all I care. There’s something else I need to show you. While you’ve still got some wits about you.”

“What?” Breathing heavily from exertion. He hasn’t been very physically active in the last few hours and his life-support is running low.

She fishes something from a side pocket. A baseball-size rock, with fossilized bits of bone.

“Don’t grab for the ball,” Rexx told Mathieu. “Keep your glove open. Let the ball come to you.”

“Okay.”

Rexx adjusted his fingers on the seams. “Ready?”

A frightened nod, small but determined, as Mathieu raised the glove uncertainly. Awkwardly.

Rexx stares, openmouthed. “What’s that? Where did it come from?”

Hjert relaxes her clench on his arm. “If you promise to behave, I’ll show you.”

21

LAMARCKED MAN

D
uring the afternoon lunch break, the first thing L. Mariachi does is call Isabelle to check on Lejandra.

Mostly he just wants to see her. Wants to look at her face again and compare it to the image he has of her from earlier that morning. Already the memory seems far older, her voice a subliminal echo of another voice.

It’s not fair to her. He has no right to drag her into his past, sully her with another life and feelings that don’t belong to her. She has enough problems of her own. The last thing she needs to do is add him to the list.

Let go, he tells himself. Let her go. Not quite sure which her he’s thinking about.

“There’s no answer,” Num Nut says. “Would you like to leave a message?”

“No.” Relieved, and at the same time worried. Someone, even if it wasn’t Isabelle, should have answered.

As soon as he logs out, Pedrowski descends on L. Mariachi like a vulture on fresh carrion. The
chavo
won’t leave him alone from the moment they sit down with their EZ-catered snacks under one of the umbrella palms planted at intervals along the concrete wall that supports the geodesic dome.

There’s no escape. The other workers have spread out in nuclear groups. The only thing L. Mariachi can do is munch his soytein crackers, sip his ryce latte, and listen to the nonstop drone of the intelligentsia’s voice, going on about different types of social evolution. How transient communities respond to change, value systems perpetuate, and cultural history survives. Not through the Darwinian propagation of inherited, badass instincts but through the transmission of learned behavior.

“Habits,” Pedrowski concludes, taking a breather to swallow the mouthful of half-chewed soy he’s been talking around.

“You mean like memes?” L. Mariachi says, thinking to head off any further discussion by intimating to the professor that he’s already heard about this shit, has at least a layman’s familiarity with the vocabulary, and doesn’t need, let alone want, a college-level discourse on the topic.

“Not exactly,” Pedrowski says. Unfazed, he launches into a lecture that addresses the differences between behavior-based memes and instruction-based memes, points out the distinction between ideas and habits—self-actuating propensities for a specific action—and finally veers into epigenetic inheritance, social phenotype, and the transmission of acquired characteristics as a response to external stimuli or input.

“I thought the environment couldn’t cause hereditary change. I mean, if I fucked up my hand”—L. Mariachi raises his rheumatoid claw—“and had a kid, the kid’s hand wouldn’t be fucked up, too.”

Which gets into besoins. How only those acquired characteristics that are initiated by a person’s needs can cause a change in behavior. Which in turn, through imitation, leads to new habits, and ultimately, a change in society.

“Lamarck also believed that the permanent disuse of any organ weakened it,” Num Nut informs him edgewise. “That its functional capacity would diminish until it finally disappeared.”

Which is obviously false, L. Mariachi thinks. If it wasn’t, 99 percent of the people in the world would be walking around without a brain. And all men would have
cojones
the size of cantaloupes.

“All ideas and beliefs,” Pedrowski continues, “are based on habits, which can be passed on through learning.”

Turns out that habits aren’t considered a form of behavior. They’re more primal—more fundamental. As such they bridge the gap between memes and genes and allow for social evolution—the modification of individual and group behavior—through acquired characteristics.

“Orthodox biological evolution maintains that fitness selection is the only role the environment plays,” Num Nut says. “In order for fitness selection to be possible, individuals within a species must differ, so that bad characteristics can be minimized and good ones can be maximized. In Lamarckian social evolution, bad behavior is minimized and good behavior reinforced. Often through intentionality.”

“So what are you doing here?” L. Mariachi asks Pedrowski. It’s pretty obvious the
chavo
’s not just trying to cover tuition costs. And there’s no way he’s going to pass up a chance to talk about his labor of love. His mission in life.

“Studying structural inheritance systems in artificially maintained environments. Observing how, in a pherion-regulated system like a migrant workforce, existing social structures act as templates for new structures as the population demographics change over a relatively short period of time.”

In other words, as workers get old, sick, or die, and are replaced by younger, more able-bodied workers.

“Structural inheritance systems are just one type of epigenetic inheritance system,” Num Nut says. “The other two are steady-state systems and chromatin-marking systems. Together these three types of EISs play a role in what is known as cell memory. The non-DNA transmission of cellular information in an organism to its descendents.”

Like he really needed to know that. Maybe he can redirect the professor. Get him onto a subject that’s more personal. “How long have you been at it?” L. Mariachi asks.

Pedrowski grimaces. “Almost five years. I’ve been crunching a lot of numbers—tweaking equations and models of behavior. At last, I finally get the chance to do some fieldwork. Compare the calculated results with real-world observations.”

L. Mariachi brushes soytein crumbs from his mouth. “I feel like a guinea pig in a science project,” he jokes.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to dose people with experimental pherions or run them through any mazes.” Pedrowski chuckles at what must be an inside joke. “I’m just here as an observer.”

Right. The same way Cortez was just on a fact-finding mission when he paid a visit to the Aztecs. “Aren’t you altering the results of the study by taking part in it?”

“Not really. Social mechanics isn’t quantum mechanics.” Pedrowski adjusts his bookworm eyescreens. As if they’re off by a millimeter and need straightening to focus his view of the world—eliminate any uncomfortable parallax.

“Why not just request access to the
patrón
’s bitcam surveillance? Observe us that way?”

Pedrowski squirms. Rubs his lips. Scratches his nose. “It’s not the same as being in-situ. Becoming an integral part of the community and its culture.”

Except no matter how hard the
chavo
tries he’ll never fit in, never be one of them. He’ll always be an outsider.

“So what’s the point?” L. Mariachi says. This is the time to pin him down, find out exactly where he’s coming from. “I mean, what is it you hope to accomplish with all this?” Other than a title after his name and tenure at some community college, passing on his newly acquired knowledge.

“Well”—Pedrowski blinks rapidly behind his eyescreens—“migrant populations tend to be unpredictable. There’s a lot of social instability, a lot of uncertainty about the way these communities are likely to develop over time.”

“In other words, you’re here to help us evolve.”

“To better adapt to the environment. That would be a more accurate statement.”

“You mean our social situation.”

Pedrowski nods. “Emotionally and psychologically.”

L. Mariachi burps. He’s had about as much of this drivel as he can stomach. Plus, his legs have fallen asleep. He tries to stand but his legs are full-on numb. He can’t feel shit, can’t move.

An icy premonition, heavy as concrete, settles in his bowels.

Could be it’s some lecture pherion the guy is outgassing, left over from his teaching assistant days to force undergrads to sit still and listen to him pontificate. But L. Mariachi doesn’t think so. He checks to see if anyone else looks disabled. If they are, they aren’t letting on. Everybody seems fine. Better than fine. It’s just him. There’s not much he can do now except wait for whoever is responsible to rescue him from terminal boredom.

Pedrowski clears his throat, oblivious. “Over time, I hope my research will help implement policies and processes that encourage stability and constructive growth so workers don’t feel alienated. Marginalized and disenfranchised as a community.”

“How much time we talking? Doesn’t it take thousands or millions of years for a trait to be inherited?”

“That’s where learning comes in,” Pedrowski says. “Learning can speed up social evolution so that it’s much faster than biological evolution.”

“Memetic evolution is tied to social institutions,” Num Nut adds. The IA is in its element here, might as well be Pedrowski’s understudy. “Habits are molded by imitation, conformity, and various institutional constraints.”

“What I’m hearing is acceptance. Learning to live with bad working conditions, and all the other shit we have to put up with,” L. Mariachi says. No different than what the Church teaches to ease suffering.

Pedrowski waves off his objection with both hands. “Not at all. Stability usually requires some type of growth. A change to correct any existing imbalances and achieve equilibrium.”

“Stability for who? The
jefe
? The politicorp?” That’s normally who’s interested in maintaining the status quo.

“Everyone,” Pedrowski says quickly. “It’s a mutually beneficial strategy. A zero-sum game where all parties come out equal.”

L. Mariachi hollows his cheeks. Spits on the ground in front of him. He tries to wiggle a toe. Nothing. Still no sign of whoever immobilized him. “What kind of changes are you talking about?” No doubt, the
chavo
has a plan. A carefully detailed course of action for what he wants to achieve.

“Initiatives. Petitions.”

“Like the worker protest.”

“Legal action.” Pedrowski nods in affirmation. “If that’s what it takes, and if it’s done right.”

“Peacefully, you mean.”

“Violence is not a good habit.” Pedrowski wets his lips in distaste. “Not the sort of conflict resolution or problem-solving approach one wants to promote in a population. In the short term, it provides temporary relief—immediate gratification. But in the long run it’s counterproductive.”

L. Mariachi sucks at the thin film of latte curdling on his teeth. “Violence begets violence.”

“Precisely!” A sharp nod of concurrence. “Better to promote an adaptation that encourages the preservation of life as opposed to one that leads to a high probability of death.”

The caveat sticks in L. Mariachi’s throat. There’s always a precondition, a mitigating circumstance, when it comes to idealists. Something to tone down the level of threat, keep everything nice and clean and palatable.

Sanitary. That’s the word he’s looking for. Nonviolent protest. Peaceful insurgency. This dude seems to think that change can be painless. Has equations up the yin-yang to reinforce his squeamishness.

Problem is, in L. Mariachi’s experience, change is inescapably messy, chaotic. It can’t be predicted, let alone regulated or directed. There’s always some stray fuckion to wreak havoc. Hell, he ought to know. He’s been blasted with his share of high-energy shitions over the years.

“. . . why music is a perfect medium to effect change,” Pedrowski is saying. “One way to reinforce certain core ideas that will eventually become habits.”

A whistle blows over L. Mariachi’s cochlear imps, and an End Break message scrolls along the bottom of his wraparounds.

Pedrowski gets up, along with the other vat workers around them who are slowly standing, mustering the collective energy to head back to work.

“What’s the matter?” Pedrowski says when L. Mariachi remains seated. “Are you okay?”

L. Mariachi spots the BEAN agents then. So does Pedrowski, who does a double take and goes dead quiet. All verbosity has been sucked out of him. The rest of the workers have gone silent, too, stopped in their tracks.

If it wasn’t for his paralyzed legs, L. Mariachi would be relieved. Grateful for the sudden peace and quiet. He knew the
chavo
’s chatter was taking a toll on him, but he didn’t realize how much of a burden it had been. How much work it had taken to listen, and how exhausted he was.

The BEAN agents are standing on the far side of the vat, near the main entrance to the building. They’re both sporting ash gray suits, bronze wraparounds, and are bald. From a distance, their heads look like two trailer hitches without the chrome. The only difference between them is the color of their ties. One is a dusty rose. The other peacock blue.

Tiago, the vat crew shift manager, is with them. Not too close. He’s maintaining a safe distance, like they might taser him just for the fun of it. It’s fairly clear Tiago was not expecting them. He’s been taken by surprise, the same as everyone else. His head bounces up and down as he talks to them, answers questions, and eventually points in the direction of L. Mariachi.

“I think maybe you should get up now,” Pedrowski mutters without looking down at him. His eyes are nervously glued to the two agents.

“I can’t,” L. Mariachi says.

“Why not?”

“I can’t move my legs.”

Pedrowski looks at him, eyes wide. “BEAN’s here for you?”

L. Mariachi shrugs. “You see anyone else sitting around, waiting for them to stop by for a friendly threesome?”

The muscles in Pedrowski’s face relax; the tension whooshes out of him so fast it could be his bladder that’s letting go. Or his sphincter.

Culero
. Asshole.

“Get out of here,” L. Mariachi tells him, barely able to conceal his disgust. “It’s better if you don’t hang with me.”

“I’ll stay if you want.” Pedrowski inflates with false bravado now that he knows he’s not the target. Probably thinking about the credit it will bring his fieldwork, being present for a BEAN bust.

“There’s nothing you can do,” L. Mariachi says. “Trust me.”

No amount of talk is going to dissuade dedicated BEAN agents, not when they’re in heat-seeking mode. About to take down their quarry.

“I’ll find out what’s going on,” Pedrowski promises, earnest. “I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

L. Mariachi nods. Whatever.

Then the budding social engineer turns into a free electron and disassociates himself. Scuttles to the safety of their fellow workers, who have clumped together in a herd for support as much as protection, leaving L. Mariachi alone to face the tandem of BEAN agents headed his way. Following the curve of the vat, side by side, with measured, unhurried steps.