Warp (16 page)

He watched the traffic. It was still backed up, and he could smell the pleasantly intense smell of the exhaust from the idling motors —BMWs, Porsches, Saabs, a limousine, all painted expensive-looking blacks and creams and dark greens. Down the street a ways a man stood with his black leather shoe propped up unsteadily on a chain, tying it and whistling.

The street went uphill. Heading away from the harbor, farther into the city, he could already see the green grass of Boston Common in the far distance, where State Street ended. The dome of the Old State House rose up in the distance, covered in golden panels. Most of the buildings had kept their antique fittings: door knockers, ornate lampposts, wrought-iron boot scrapers. The trees planted along the sidewalk were bolted down with wire stays. As he walked Hollis searched for his reflection in the wall of a polished black granite bank.

My God—it's full of stars.

He lit another cigarette. The stores were mostly trendy business-lunch eateries and boutiquey chain stores—French Connection, Ann Taylor, Armani A/X. A male-model type with a long blond ponytail and a leather jacket waited by the curb, sitting on a fat chugging motorcycle with a huge rack of red lights on the back. Hollis walked faster, stiff-legged. He took another drag on the cigarette and coughed.

He got there sooner than he expected. The building was a modern-looking skyscraper, fifty or sixty stories tall; Hollis had to step back to the edge of the sidewalk to see the very top. The address was spelled out over the doors in shiny brass sans serif letters:

SEVENTY-FIVE STATE STREET

An airy smoked-glass lobby took up the first few floors. A few scattered lights were on in the upper stories. A seagull wheeled and circled around the very top. Behind it featureless white clouds rolled by in the darkening blue sky.

Sometimes, towards evening, a lone figure would appear on the ancient battlements, gazing out at the horizon.

The next building over housed an HMV, and Hollis strolled over and looked in the front window. There was an elaborate cardboard display promoting a Liz Phair album, and a music video was showing on a TV monitor with no sound.

He went inside, and the same song was playing over the loudspeakers. He watched the rest of the video on a stack of TVs set up on one wall, all networked together to make one big picture, then walked upstairs where the CDs were. He roamed through the aisles at random and looked through the magazines. There was a Sega game system set up on a display stand, hooked up to a big-screen TV, and he turned it on.

A menu of games popped up:

PLUNDER: THE VENGEANCE

CODEX

AGE OF IRON

PGA GOLF SUPER-PRO

ECCO THE DOLPHIN

TASKMASTER

Hollis clicked on
ECCO THE DOLPHIN
.

It took him a minute to figure out the controls—there didn't seem to be any directions anywhere—but the game was mostly self-explanatory. He was a dolphin, swimming around underwater, on a quest to rescue his fellow sea creatures who'd been kidnapped by mysterious and powerful forces. He swam around collecting clues and exploring secret chambers, where he could consult older and wiser sea creatures who offered him cryptic advice. He started to concentrate. There were obstacles to contend with: sharks, jellyfish, a time limit on how long he could stay underwater without breathing. If he got up enough speed he could leap out of the water into the air, with an animated blue sky behind him. Hypnotic, new-agey mood music played in the background. Every time he found something new the game allowed him farther into the labyrinth, and without realizing it he started bending over the controls, totally absorbed.

The screen went dark.

It took him a few seconds to figure out what was going on. The game had turned itself off—there was some kind of built-in limit on how long you could play. He blinked and looked around: a couple of teenagers were standing behind him waiting to use it. As he put the joystick back on the cardboard rack his hands were shaking. He shoved them in his pockets and headed back downstairs. Outside, in the window, he saw that night was falling.

Our world is dying. Only you can save us.

Hollis walked back over to 75 State Street. A few older men and women were on their way out, buttoning their coats and tossing their scarves over their shoulders as the cold hit them. For some reason the burnished-metal revolving door was incredibly heavy, and Hollis found himself having to plant his feet and lean into it to get it moving.

Inside it was warm and humid and weirdly quiet, like a greenhouse: the glass walls instantly cut off all noise from the street. He looked up: the ceiling was three or four stories above him. Groves of delicate birch saplings stood in the corners in ceramic tubs, with obsidian slab benches neatly arranged underneath them. Hollis could hear the whisper of some kind of high-tech ventilation system hushing subsonically in the background.

I'm tired.

He walked through towards the back, in the direction of a bank of elevators. A security guard in a blue rent-a-cop uniform stopped him. She was sitting behind a semicircular marble desk.

“Sign in, please,” she said. “It's after five.”

She pushed a battered black binder towards him across the desktop, with a ballpoint pen on a chain.

“Sure,” said Hollis. His voice sounded far away. He signed.

Have you any idea how much this signature.

A list of the tenant companies was posted on the wall behind the guard, and he checked it and walked past her. Munson, Hanson, Gund was on the twenty-first floor. An elevator was already waiting, and in the second before the polished-brass doors opened he caught a glimpse of his reflection in them, distorted by the wavy metal and divided down the middle by the center line.

The elevator was empty. He closed his eyes. With his fingertips, he felt the metal nubs of the floor numbers written in Braille under the buttons.

Eileen always knew there was something special about that Kessler boy, and when.

The bell rang, and the doors opened directly onto the office anteroom: apparently the company owned the whole floor. It was decorated like an old-fashioned cloakroom, with wood paneling and an umbrella stand. He walked through it into a reception area, which was painted a stylish, soothing rose color. The receptionist, a young woman with brown hair, looked up when he came in.

I am an android, Doctor. I am incapable of experiencing fear.

She was sitting on an uncomfortable-looking orthopedic chair with no back, wearing a headset phone.

“Can I help you?” she said.

Why, Mr. Kessler is one of our most valuable clients.

Hollis cleared his throat.

“I'm looking for Eileen Cavanaugh.”

“I'll see if she's free,” said the woman.

She switched to an intercom and politely lowered her voice.

“Darcy? Is Eileen there? There's someone out here to see her.”

She listened for an answer, then looked back up at Hollis.

“Your name?” she said.

Call me Ishmael.

He cleared his throat.

“Scotty.”

She waited for a moment for Hollis to give a last name, but when he didn't she just said “Scotty” into the headset, then stopped and listened again, tapping her pen.

“Thanks, Darcy.” The receptionist looked up. “She's with somebody right now, Scotty, but she should be free in another minute. If you'd like to take a seat, you can wait right over there.”

She indicated an overstuffed brown leather couch, and he walked over and sat down. He crossed his legs until one of his feet started to get numb, then he crossed them the other way. The receptionist went on with her conversation. Hollis stared straight ahead at the opposite wall. The coffee table was covered with business and investment magazines.

The fishing was very bad. Malo's family had nothing to eat.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“What?”

He looked up.

“Do you have an appointment?” said the secretary. “With Eileen?”

The monitor on the desk next to her was angled to one side, displaying an incredibly complicated-looking spreadsheet document.

“It's supposed to be a surprise.”

“Well, she should be done in just a couple of minutes.”

She looked down again. If Hollis craned his neck he could see a hall that led farther back into the company suite.

Another minute went by. Finally, in response to some signal that only she could perceive, the receptionist looked up again, flashed him a tiny fake smile, and motioned to him to go in through the door.

Once he was inside, he wasn't sure exactly where he was supposed to be going. None of the doors were labeled, and he couldn't seem to force himself to ask any of the people he passed. He kept walking blindly straight ahead until he reached the end of the hallway. It opened out into another waiting room, which was an almost perfect replica of the first one.

The first thing he heard as he came into the room was Eileen's voice.

The new receptionist didn't say anything. She just pointed to a couch, and Hollis sat down again, but his skin was prickling. He felt preternaturally alert. He couldn't see her, and he couldn't quite make out what she was saying, but he was sure he recognized her tone of voice, which was very distinctive: Eileen had a very cool, very reasonable way of speaking, which would accelerate every once in a while up to a momentary pitch of overexcitement, getting higher and faster at the same time, then decline again just as quickly into an even, regular calmness. Hollis shifted over on the couch a little for a better angle on where the sound was coming from. There she was, standing with her back to him in a doorway at the far end of the hall. He couldn't make out who she was talking to. Light from inside the room was spilling out around her, making a silhouette. He watched her for a long time without moving.

She stood with her arms folded, wearing a dark green cashmere sweater over a short, stylish black dress and black stockings. Her blond hair was short and wavy. He'd forgotten how small she was.

Then she turned around and walked down the hall towards him, still talking back over her shoulder:

“Back in a minute,” she called musically.

She was walking briskly, in a hurry. He could see her face now: her features were very fine, a little aristocratic, quirkily pretty. She had an open face, with a tiny pointed nose and just the hint of a double chin.

When she saw him, she stopped. He stood up on shaky legs.

“Well,” she said.

She put her hands on her hips.

“Well, well, well.” Eileen walked slowly out into the room. “If it isn't Scotty Kessler.”

She kissed him lightly on the cheek.

“How's tricks down in Engineering, Scotty?”

She was freshly made up, and she smelled like perfume.

With the light behind it her blond hair was dark.

“Not bad,” he said hoarsely.

He cleared his throat.

“I can't work miracles.”

“I haven't seen you for ages,” she said, and she canted her head to one side. “You've been underground. Everybody's looking for you, you know—people talk about you like you're some kind of leprechaun. You're not even in Information.”

“I know.”

They sat down. She sat sideways, a comfortable distance away, and slipping off her shoe, she tucked one stockinged leg up under her, girlishly.

“So you still live in Boston?”

He nodded.

“I was just walking around. I remembered your address.”

“I'm so glad,” she said. “It's good to see you.”

“I like your office.”

She chuckled and glanced up at the ceiling.

“Don't try to snow me, Mr. Big-Time Anarchist. I know there are visions of Molotov cocktails dancing in your head even as we speak.”

“No, really,” he said. “It looks like a nice place to work in. I was expecting something much more—I don't know. Corporate. Productivity-enhancing.”

“Well, it isn't really all that bad. You read too much science fiction—it's not
Brazil,
or anything. I'd much rather be in New York, but they made me a good offer here.”

They looked at each other for a few seconds. The receptionist was quietly taking a call.

“So are you working or anything?”

“Not really,” Hollis said, and he looked down at the carpet. “I'm looking into a couple of research projects. Freelance stuff.”

“Why don't you think about coming here?” said Eileen. Her eyes were a very pale blue. “We're doing all kinds of hiring right now—they're crazy about humanities types. You should send over your résumé.”

He smiled wryly.

“Sure.”

“I'm
serious,
Hollis—just send it straight to me. Say the word and I'll even have them send a messenger. A big strong man like you needs a job. Straighten up.” She punched his biceps with her tiny fist. “Fly right.”

“Ouch,” said Hollis, rubbing his arm with his other hand. “That's my pitching arm.”

“I mean,
I
can't offer you a job, or anything like that, but I could definitely put in a good word for you.”

He nodded.

“I guess it's probably a lot of work.”

Straighten up. Fly right.

“Sure, you have to put in fifty, sixty hours, at least—everybody does.” She shrugged. “I mean, it's not like being in school.”

Hollis glanced down at the backs of his hands.

Never meant for toil, that's sure.

“Well, hard work's no substitute for talent, I always say.”

“Hollis, you're—” She started to laugh, then broke off, wrinkling her pointy nose. “My God, Hollis, you absolutely reek of cigarette smoke.” She leaned forward and snuffed the lapel of his overcoat. “You
never
smoke.”