Virtually True (28 page)

“Good. You’re getting better.”

“How so?”

“Because the issues we dealt with were extremely unpleasant for you. That imagined electronic expedition you took illustrates many of the problems you are having in your life. For example, imagining that your wife embraced lesbianism tells me you are angry with her for leaving you. The assassination of your colleague with the same type of device that did
in reality
kill your friend, Mr. Aziz, is probably your way of dealing with the lack of justice in the world. You do not care for your colleague, Rush Gelding, do you?”

“No.”

“There is a chasm between—” Powter stops short. “Hold on. I have another call.” The screen stalls, cluttered with special offers for psychotropic software. Buy three, get a free therapy session with internationally recognized Ph.D. Dr. Christopher Powter, best-selling author of
Simply Getting Better
. What a quack, True thinks. Powter comes back. “I am sorry about that. Now, where were we?”

True shrugs.

Powter scratches his chin. “Chasms. There is a chasm between reality and your expectations in life, which are derived from external sources.”

“Media.”

“There are many issues you are facing. You feel you lost everything of importance the last time you fell into this electronic addiction. Now you feel you have wasted a second chance. This virtual vacation you took is constructed of symbols. You told me you suspected it was an interactive software program; so it was you, in fact, who made up the whole story, playing out these issues in your mind.”

“I told you that?” True feels manipulated. Knows there’s more here, although it’s fruitless to argue. The picture is murky now. It will, he hopes, clear up soon. “Why Tokyo? Why Reiner?”

“Those two elements do not seem to add up, given the nature of your traumas. Then again, didn’t you see your ex-wife—”

“She’s still my wife.”

“—excuse me, your wife interviewed on TV after the quake. Yes?”

True has to hand it to the doctor.

“But then again, you seem to have so many issues to work out, there are bound to be a few that are not so easily solvable. We can attempt one of two methods. We can try to work through each problem, which would take much time and money, and frankly your insurance would probably run out before we finished.”

“No discounts for long-term customers?”

“No.”

“Or?”

“Or we can just erase it. Purge you of all of these bad memories and start you on another life.”

“Sounds like the easy way out. Actually, it sounds like a lobotomy.”

“Oh, no. You would be more intelligent than you are now. We would have to, of course, create new memories for you, ones not so traumatic. Then you could be a productive member of American society again.”

And not a drain on the insurance industry, True thinks. “What’s the unemployment rate now in the U.S.?”

“I’m not sure. Somewhere around thirty percent.”

“What am I supposed to do with all this free time I’ll have as this productive-unproductive member of American society?”

“We can deal with that when we come to it.”

True cups his hands behind his head. “Let’s hold off on any long-term treatment plans for a bit. I need to think about this.”

“Well, that is your prerogative as patient; however, my professional advice would be to get started as soon as possible.”

“Afraid the insurance will run out? You are—”

Powter’s image flickers and sparkles, dissolves, bounces back. “There’s a logjam of data squeezing into Nerula. How do they expect me to do my job in when these third-rate third-world nations can’t even keep up their satellite feeds?”

“Logjam?” True speaks to the disintegrating image.

“What are you talking about?” Powter’s image now strong and clear. “You zoned again. I’m going to prescribe more time with these psychotropic patterns. There’s a new one that should ground you better in reality.”

“Logjam, Dr. Powter. I remember now.”

“Our session is over. We shall talk tomorrow,” and Powter vanishes, his face edged out by new patterns and colors.

True stares where Powter was, sees the letters—perhaps the word—
p0yiwk
, blinking. On. Off.

p0yiwk
. What does it mean?

*          *          *

True wakes up, his arms squeezed by electrical restraints. In a bed across the room is another patient, muttering in gibberese. Peering over True is Rush, who, for the first time True can remember, looks concerned about someone other than himself.

“Why am I in restraints?”

“You don’t remember?”

“What?”

“I left you to get a bite to eat at the cafeteria, and you were wandering the hospital, trying to break into the plague section, screaming you had to escape to Tokyo. Why Tokyo, Ailey?”

True rifles through his memory. “I don’t know.”

“I’m no shrink, but judging from what you were ranting about, I’d bet you’re obsessed with Tokyo, Reiner, someone named Eden, and log rolling. You have a thing for Reiner? You wouldn’t be the first.”

“My subconscious is telling me something’s there.”

“Listen, headcase, I wouldn’t even trust your conscious if I was you.”

“How much time passed since the last time you stopped by?”

“What do you mean?”

“How many times have you visited me and over how long a period of time?”

“This is the first time.”

“What about when you first came in and told me how I’d fucked up so much?”

“About an hour ago.”

“What about Dr. Powter and his therapy sessions?”

“You won’t see Powter until you get back to New York. In the meantime, he prescribed more patterns. When this 12-step is done, we’ll fly you home and Powter will do what he can.”

“Who’s in the bed across the room?”

“The plague is out of control. The hospital is putting all the psychos together in order to free up rooms for plaguees.”

“You scared?”

“I’m inoculated. So are you. WWTV stands by its employees.” Rush stands, cramps up. “My stomach feels like someone’s grabbing at my intestines.” Rotten eggs in Rush’s wake. Not just bilharzia, True realizes.

Rush plants his thumb on the ID scanner and the door spits open. “Ailey! Think about the Ghetto Tourney deal. It’s good for you, good for me, good for the network.”

After Rush leaves, the pattern snaps shut, and a familiar face shuffles into the void.

CHAPTER 20

Reiner peers down at him from the screen, says, “I know we’ve never met, but I’ve admired your work. I just wanted to offer my sympathies. Addiction can strike anyone. If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”

She’s the same as in True’s dreams, the same unrepentant toughness barely camouflaged under steroid therapy and plastic surgery; the same voice, mannerisms. True marvels at his imagination, how it picked up on her entire essence.

He squirms under the restraints. An idea. “You know what you can do? Check into Tokyo land transactions since the quake. Find out who’s been grabbing up the land.”

“For what possible reason?”

He’s too aggressive. As well as he feels he knows her, she doesn’t know him. He want to slow down, but the words gush out. “A hunch. Before I ended up here, I interviewed a Japanese refugee at the dock—old guy—told me he’d been forced to sell his land for dirt. Said it’s happening a lot there.”

“Who’d buy worthless land?”

“When they rebuild, it’ll be worth trillions.”

“Only way that’d happen is if they keep the capital here.”

“Exactly!”

“Bullshit. That’s American paranoid delusional jingoism presented as a Japanese conspiracy. All due respect? In bed with restraints on, you aren’t what I’d call a reliable source.”

“Reiner, come on.”

“You act like you know me. I only called to offer condolences. You were a damned fine journo, and I was sorry to hear this is how you ended up.”

“I’ll tell you who’s scarfing up the land. It’s a corrupt circuit named Sato. Runs the Sato corp.”

“Tsuyoshi Sato?” The look on Reiner’s face—like she calls on a good will mission and this poor shit still thinks he’s a reporter instead of a head case.

“A martial artist,” True continues. “Controls an organization of salary samurai and corporate ninjas.”

Reiner can’t control herself anymore. “Sato’s a skinny, whiny salaryman who inherited a fortune. He’s harmless. Hasn’t worked a day in his life. Certainly isn’t made of the stuff to pull off what you say he did.”

True’s desperate. The restraints don’t promote his cause. “Listen, Reiner. Just check into it. Do it for me.”

“It’s a waste of time.”

“You won’t regret it.”

“What I regret is calling you, Ailey, sorry to say.”

“I know I can trust you. Before, I didn’t, but I was wrong.”

“Before? Before what?” Reiner rubs her eyes, tired of the conversation.

“There’s so much at stake.”

“Bye.”

“Reiner, wait. Please, wait.”

Her patience is stretched taut. “What?”

“Check into recent land transactions. If you can get through the screens, you’ll see Sato’s behind it all. He’s exerting intense pressure behind the scenes to get the politicians to keep the capital in Tokyo. You’ll see.”

Reiner rolls her eyes and the screen zips shut. True looks across the room, sees three more beds, a slumbering log in each. The wall unshuts; more beds are wheeled in.

The plague rages on. So does True’s mind.

A new pattern replaces Reiner’s snapshot. Psychotropia, mind candy, min-max: minimum effort, maximum results. True stops fighting. Let it work its numbing magic.

*          *          *

It’s deep night; snores and deep breathing accompany True’s thoughts. Finally he’s unshackled from psychotropia; an opportunity to try and make sense of things.

“p0yiwk.” He reaches for his wrist-top and plugs in this haunting code.

No reference in data banks relating to p0yiwk.

True types it again—the wrist-top responds in kind. He stares at the glowing keyboard. Whispers “Pee zero why eye double-you kay. Pee zero why eye double-you kay. Pee zero why eye double-you kay.”

It’s important, knows he must decipher it.
Pee zero why eye double-you kay
. It feels vaguely cryptographic.

He’s out of step with reality, a little off line. Things aren’t what they seem.