Wetware (27 page)

BOOK V

CHAPTER 1

April 23, 2029

BRIGGS SUBSCRIBED to a newsletter of the Artificial Life Association. A lot of the stories in it were filled with lousy reporting, mistakes, and suggestions of problems that didn’t really exist. The editors were interested in sensation, and Briggs took this into account. It had a listing of jobs and a who’s-who section that gave the lineup of the people who were in the business now. It also had a registry of what were called “wild diseases,” new ones that turned up without a perfect etiology.

He scrolled through lists of medical calls now, dismissing one and then another as obvious reporting errors or lousy lab work, or just a mild flu that some college student had hatched up for a prank. He stopped, though, at an entry that had just been posted. The woman who called in the case said that a clerk in a hotel, a fleabag of a place, had gotten sick. There was nothing unusual about that. In that part of town there were all kinds of things. For instance, there were new strains of sexually transmitted malaria. Hard to treat, but not impossible. But what got Briggs’s attention was that the clerk’s eyes were itchy and his lids looked dark, as though he were wearing mascara. The lining of his mouth had been black, and his lips had been black too. A medical technician had been dispatched to take a look, but aside from the color, there wasn’t much else to go on. That was it. Briggs had been uncertain what amount of time a new disease would require for an incubation period, but he guessed it would be more than three weeks and less than six. Kay and Jack had been missing since almost the end of March, and it was now close to the end of April. Say four weeks.

Briggs went out and looked for a cab. When he got into the backseat, the driver said, “Where to?”

The hotel wasn’t much to look at. The usual old ironwork, the gray stone façade, fire escapes, a neon sign that buzzed like a hive of insects getting ready to sting an intruder. Briggs got out, paid the cabbie, and looked one way and then another, a gesture that he found himself making more and more these days. Then he went in.

Not much of a lobby, just a couple of sofas, some ashtrays filled with cigarette butts and silver paper, a floor of black and white tiles. A young man, just a kid, sat at a desk at the back. He gave Briggs a quick glance. Briggs had the impulse to hold his breath, but this was stupid. It wasn’t going to do any good, and he knew it.

“How are you feeling?” said Briggs.

“Me?” said the kid. “Never better. Why do you ask?”

The kid had acne and a slack chin and neck. His skin was a little greasy and pale.

“We had a report about someone being sick here,” said Briggs.

“Oh,” said the kid. “That? They had a wrong number.”

“Is that right?” said Briggs.

“Uh-huh,” said the kid. “You want a room?”

“No,” said Briggs.

“Well,” said the kid. “So?”

Briggs stood there for a while, counting slowly.

“I was just wondering if you were the one who was sick,” said Briggs.

“Do I look sick?” said the kid.

Briggs shrugged.

“Well, I’m not,” said the kid.

“Then who was?” said Briggs.

“Look,” said the kid. “I explained it all before to the technician. I had a little cold, but that was it. And let me tell you, sometimes some people here have more than a cold. Oh yeah.”

“So then a technician came here?” said Briggs.

“Yeah,” said the kid. “I told you. Someone turned in a report, and it was just some kind of stupid rumor. One of the women who uses this place was cutting up, you know, getting mad because we wouldn’t give her credit. Happens all the time.”

“Uh-huh,” said Briggs.

“So the technician had a wrong number,” said the kid.

Briggs looked at the door behind the desk. The kid licked his lips.

“But you weren’t the one who was really sick, though, right?” said Briggs. “That was someone else, wasn’t it?”

“What’s the big deal?” said the kid.

“How’s he doing?” said Briggs.

“Who?” said the kid.

“Come on,” said Briggs. “How sick is he?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said the kid. He didn’t sound convinced.

“No?” said Briggs. He looked around, thinking that the technician who had come here had probably been tired and worried about a lot of things, not just one isolated report of a clerk with a strange skin condition. The technician saw stuff every day that put a strange skin condition a bit lower than the top of the list.

“Look,” said the kid. “We don’t need anyone butting in here, or anything like that. No quarantine. Nothing like that. We get all kinds of people here.”

“I see,” said Briggs. “Who was sick?”

The kid stared at Briggs.

“Are you a cop?” said the kid.

“No,” said Briggs. He thought,
Worse than that.

“Ah, shit,” said the kid. “I don’t know.”

Briggs waited. He looked around.

“He’s in there,” said the kid. He pointed at the door behind the desk.

Briggs tapped on the door behind the desk and pushed it open. The room had the feverish atmosphere of a sickroom: damp, and the air felt intimate, as warm as a toilet seat that someone has just sat on. Briggs looked at the posters on the walls, which came from model airplane conventions: the wings set in dihedrals, the fuselages visible under the Japanese silk, the beauty of the designs. Beneath them, on the sofa, lay the clerk. He panted a little. Every now and then he reached up and scratched his eyes with the back of his hand, and it left a dark smudge. His lips were black.

“Ah, Jesus,” said the clerk.

Briggs leaned a little closer so he could look at the man’s eyes. The lining of the eyelids was dark, and it sloughed off in flecks when the man blinked. He did so repeatedly.

“It’s coming off more than it used to. Bigger pieces, like.”

“Uh-huh,” said Briggs.

Briggs watched the man’s mouth. The clerk looked as if he were swallowing something unpleasant. Briggs guessed that the lining of the man’s mouth and the surface of his tongue might be sloughing off.

“I got to go pee,” said the clerk. His voice was a little sibilant.

“You want help getting into the bathroom?” said Briggs. He was holding his breath again. Then he tried to stop it, but it was still hard to fill his lungs with the air in this room, so he stood there, taking shallow breaths.

The clerk spit into his handkerchief, but he didn’t look at it. Briggs saw it, though, and then he swallowed. It wouldn’t do to get sick here.

“Come on,” said Briggs. “I’ll give you a hand.”

The clerk shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I’ll wait.”

The clerk blinked, and then puckered his chin. When the tears came out of the sides of his eyes, they were gray. Briggs thought they were this color from small pieces of the lining of the eyelid.

“I don’t want to,” said the clerk.

“Why not?” said Briggs. “If you have to use the bathroom, you have to. Right?”

The clerk shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Something happens when I do it.”

“Oh?” said Briggs.

“Yeah,” said the clerk. “So I’d rather just sit here.”

“What happens?” said Briggs.

“I don’t know,” said the clerk. “Oh shit. Oh fuck.”

The clerk put out his hand, asking for comfort. He just put it out, and Briggs stood there. Then he put out his hand and took it. The clerk puckered up his chin and said, “It comes out inky. Like something from an octopus.”

The kidneys,
thought Briggs.
That’s probably what it is.
He thought of the early attempts to make creatures, and how some of these had gone wrong: they had turned black from the esophagus and lungs inward. Briggs recalled, with a flinch, the expressions on the faces of the technicians when this had happened.

“I don’t know what to do,” said the clerk. “I don’t know what to do. Doctors always scared me, but maybe I need one. What do you think?”

Briggs held the clerk’s hand.

“We’ve got to call a doctor,” said Briggs.

“Uh-huh,” said the clerk. “That’s what the others said.”

“Which others?” said Briggs.

“A man and a woman,” said the clerk.

“Oh?” said Briggs. “How old?”

“They were in their twenties, but they seemed fresher than that. Not younger, just cleaner. Yeah. That’s it. They seemed
clean.”

“Did the woman have short hair? Pale skin?” said Briggs. “Did the man look like a runner?”

“Yeah,” said the clerk. “They were nice. A little goofy.”

“Uh-huh,” said Briggs.

“She had white skin. She carried sheet music around,” said the clerk.

“Where are they now?” he said.

“Jack and Kay?” said the clerk.

“Yeah,” said Briggs. “Kay and Jack.”

“I don’t know,” said the clerk, with a kind of infinite finality. “They checked out.”

The clerk coughed. Briggs tried not to look away, but he had to when he saw what the clerk had coughed up. The clerk breathed through his mouth, exhausted, and he had the blinking, vacuous expression of an animal that has been stunned, like a steer under a sledgehammer, just the instant before it collapses in a heap. Briggs looked at the clerk’s lips and chin and went into the bathroom to get a towel, but the ones on the floor were already stained black. He picked up the cleanest one and took it out to the clerk.

Briggs picked up the phone and dialed the emergency number and gave the address. He sat down for a moment and looked at the airplanes on the posters. The wings seemed long and delicate, and the airplanes were so self-contained, so perfectly designed for one thing: flight. He looked back at the clerk’s eyelids.

“It won’t be long,” said Briggs.

“Oh, yeah?” said the clerk. “Well, that’s good. I guess.” He blinked. “Itches.”

The clerk sat back, his face smeared. A stain, with a sweet odor, spread from the crotch of his pants. Briggs saw that the clerk’s head was leaning to one side and that his mouth was open, slack, rubbery. Briggs let go of his hand. Then he stood up and looked around, not sure what he was trying to find, but then he realized this was just a tic, just aimless-ness. He didn’t know what to do, and so he moved from one side of the room to the other, trying to come up with some idea. He guessed the only good thing was that with an unknown like this, the medical crew would treat it as infectious, which it probably was.

Outside, in front of the desk, the clerk said, “How’s he doing?”

Briggs shook his head.

“He’s dead,” said Briggs.

“Gee,” said the kid. “I knew he wasn’t feeling good, but I didn’t think it was . . . you know . . . ”

“If you get sick, go to the doctor right away. Don’t wait around,” said Briggs.

“Me?” said the clerk. “I don’t want any trouble. No one’s going to pin anything on me. That’s a promise.”

Briggs heard the sound of the medical crew in the street, and when he got outside and was walking away, he tried to imagine something that was the opposite of chaos—a hard, shiny point, like a diamond—but as he did, all he could think of was the infinities of the sky. Down the avenue the flat land spread away into the clutter of lights, and around him, on both sides of the street, Briggs saw buildings that were getting ready to be torn down, junk wrappers blowing along the gutters, cars that left black exhaust in the air like the first appearance of a genie that offered no wishes at all.

CHAPTER 2

April 24, 2029

BLAINE WENT through the lobby of his office building. Above him, in the dome, the stern angels reached out for one another in an attempt to make contact. The blue sky, with puffs of gold-tinted clouds, stretched into the infinities of the horizon. The atmosphere of the lobby was one of putative calm, although it was so mannered as to suggest an electric, thinly disguised hysteria. Blaine waited for the elevator to open, and when it did, he stepped in. It shut behind him with a sigh and a thud.

From his office, Blaine looked out at the city. The river made a mirrorlike S, and in the distance he saw the smoke rising from a section where they still did some manufacturing. It was allowed here because Blaine liked to see it and to be reminded of the fact that economic activity had, at its heart, the work of making something. Now, though, he sat down and stared. He couldn’t really remember what it was like to make decisions. All he knew was the ability to do so was gone.

No one came into his office. This was usually the case when the markets were tense. No one wanted to come in and ask a question and be exposed to those languid, appalling eyes as they looked up from a report to answer what he thought was a stupid question. Usually, though, he sent out requests for information, for interest rates in various cities in the world, Berlin, Paris, Moscow, Tokyo, Rio, the answers to his requests coming on small slips of paper that he had had printed for this purpose. Of course, this was antiquated, but he had a notion that information that was not written down by hand or that just appeared on a monitor was imprecise and numb. He wanted to have the sense that a human being had prepared a report for him.

Shares were falling now in earnest, and they fell with more than ordinary volatility. What was the correct attitude? How, for instance, would wheat futures be affected when the disruption had gotten into the oil markets? He looked at the reports and guessed that people were on the verge of dismissing each other and had started to look out for themselves. That was the true test of a panic: the common good was the first casualty.

“Mr. Blaine,” said a secretary who came into the room. The secretary was a tall, slender man with black hair. He looked like a mortician’s assistant, and when he spoke, he glanced away from Blaine’s eyes. “You have a call.”

Blaine held up his hand. He didn’t want to take any calls.

“It’s Evelyn Black,” said the secretary. “From the board of overseers . . . ”

Blaine went on looking out the window for a moment and then said, “All right.”

He picked up the phone.

“Well, Wendell,” said Evelyn Black. “You’re a hard man to reach these days.”

“I’ve been busy,” said Blaine.

“Have you?” said Evelyn Black. “Well, I’m glad to hear that. What the fuck have you been doing?”

“Evelyn,” said Blaine.

“Evelyn what?” she said.

“I’m doing my best, as I’m sure you know,” Blaine said.

Evelyn Black was quiet on the other end.

“All right, Wendell,” she said. “We’ve known each other for a lot of years. I wanted to say that the board of directors is going to release a statement today saying that we have complete faith in you. And your decisions.”

“I appreciate that,” said Blaine.

“Do you, Wendell?” said Evelyn Black. “Well, that’s great. What are you going to do?”

“I have a plan,” said Blaine.

“Well, Wendell, it better fucking work,” she said.

Blaine put a hand to his head. Evelyn Black waited, her breathing rough and wet, like a child with asthma.

“So,” she said. “Is that all you have to say?”

“Evelyn, we’ve been friends . . . ” he said.

“Wendell, this isn’t a friendly call,” she said. “Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“No,” he said. “I’ll think of something.”

“Well, you better do it fast,” she said. “That’s the message. Am I making myself clear?”

Downstairs, the people in the lobby looked at their watches. Soon, they thought, Blaine would make the announcement that quieted the markets, that gave people here something to talk about at lunch, and, of course, at dinner in London, Berlin, Rio, Paris, Moscow, Tokyo. Maybe Blaine wanted this to go on a little longer, but what was the point of that? Billions were getting ready to disappear into failed shares. Could that be good for anyone? If so, who? People looked at one another and tried to smile, but it didn’t do much good. Mostly these smiles looked like those of people who had had minor surgery and were going to work anyway.

Blaine went home in the afternoon without saying a word. In the lobby downstairs, the people turned to look at him. He went through them without a glance, and got into his car outside, and then he sat in the back of the car, saying nothing.

Blaine went to sleep without eating, and in the morning he sat at the side of the bed, looking at his ugly feet coming out of the cuffs of his green silk pajamas. His toes were long, and he sat there thinking of all the mornings he had looked at his ugly feet and started the day with the first effort to pretend that he was getting everything he needed. He knew this brooding was not a good sign, and he struggled against it, but as he went in to shave, as he took his bath, as he picked out the shirt that smelled of starch, he kept stopping short. Then, holding his razor, or his toothbrush, like a figure in a wax museum, he came up against the same wild impulse, which was insufficiently put into words, but which came out now as one word. “Kay.”

He tied his tie, looked in the mirror, and told himself that this torment and distraction was for other people. It was precisely what he had spent years trying to avoid. He said to himself that there was no fool like an old fool, that he was besotted with a young woman, but then he realized that this was just another way of trying to hide from himself how he really felt, and above everything else, the last weeks had shown him that he was tired of lying.

A little later he got into the car and told Jimmy to go to the part of town where Stone’s studio was, and they went down the forlorn streets, passing the Chinese and Turkistan restaurants, the garish storefronts. They pulled up in front of Stone’s building, and Blaine sat in the back, looking out the window.

“Doesn’t look like much,” said Jimmy.

Blaine got out and opened the door, and then looked at the directory on the wall, like a man examining poisonous insects under glass. He found the name and climbed the stairs and then knocked on the door, once, and then again, harder.

“Mr. Blaine,” said Stone as he opened the door. He was wearing a silk dressing gown with food stains on it, and he brushed the crumbs off it. “To think that Wendell Blaine would come here.” He looked over his shoulder, into his apartment. “You will have to forgive my rooms. I don’t keep house the way I used to, but then I used to have help. You know, in Vienna? But come in, please, would you like a cup of tea?”

“Tea?” said Blaine. “I . . . no, thank you. I don’t think . . . ”

“Of course, you are a busy man,” said Stone. “How could I think that a busy man has time for tea? Well, what can I do? You must be looking for Kay. Do you think she will get a chance at the Marshall?”

“Yes,” said Blaine. “But I need to talk with her.”

Stone shrugged.

“I don’t know what to say. It may not do you any good,” he said. “She is not an easy listener. You can’t just ask her a question right out. She is slippery.”

“No,” said Blaine. “I mean, where can I find her?”

“She hasn’t been coming to practice lately,” said Stone.

“Don’t you have her address?” said Blaine.

“No,” said Stone.

“Can you get a message to her?” said Blaine. “Can you ask her to come to see me?”

“Of course, I can try. If she comes. If she doesn’t . . . ” Stone shrugged.

Blaine closed his eyes.

“Of course, you are busy,” said Stone. “But even in a time like this, one thinks of Kay. Do you remember when she was playing at the audition? I have been thinking about a certain phrase. Piercing . . . ”

“Yes,” said Blaine. “I remember.”

“Well,” said Stone. “How can one explain that? I have tried, but I can’t. And even now, in the midst of worries, I can see you are still thinking about it.”

“Worries?” said Blaine.

“The panic,” said Stone.

“What?” said Blaine. “Oh that. I guess.” Blaine closed his eyes. “Yes. You are right about it being piercing. Please give her the message, will you?”

“If I get a chance,” said Stone. “Good day, Mr. Blaine. It was a pleasure to see you.”

Blaine took a step and then turned back.

“She admires you, doesn’t she?” said Blaine.

“Sometimes,” said Stone. “Yes.”

Blaine nodded, looking at Stone carefully.

“You know, people have dismissed you as washed up,” said Blaine.

“I know what people say about an old man,” said Stone. “But that is the beauty of being old. You don’t care so much.”

Blaine went on staring.

“Well, I wanted to tell you they are wrong,” said Blaine. “For what it’s worth. Good afternoon, Mr. Stone.”