Wetware (24 page)

CHAPTER 16

April 17, 2029

BRIGGS RECOGNIZED the handwriting immediately, and when he opened the envelope he found the promotional gimmick. It was pink and green, like leaves in springtime, and the touch of it suggested the succulent texture of new growth. The thing was supposed to be a key chain, and it looked like ordinary promotional junk. The come-on was that you could take it to a gaming parlor, and, without charge, you could have a look around in the world of the game that was being promoted. If you wanted to play, or to investigate further, you could get a discount for the first couple of sessions.

Briggs stood in the street in front of the gaming parlor with the promotional gimmick in his hand, and as he looked around, he thought,
Will I be able to resist her?

A ship’s bell hung just inside the door, and it gave the place a little atmosphere, as though this were a gentleman’s club from decades ago.

“Can I help you?” said the attendant at the door.

“I’d like to try this out,” said Briggs.

He held up the matchbook-sized object.

“Over there,” said the attendant.

He pointed at one of the booths near the front of the parlor.

“A lot of people like it,” he said.

An introductory look at a game only used a cuff, like the ones that were used to take blood pressure. Briggs put the key into a slot, and then his arm into the cuff. It grasped him with a firmness that surprised him; its speed and strength suggested a trap being sprung. The registration began, once and then again, the cool chill on his arm occurring twice, as though the machine were trying to be sure about something. He pulled the curtain of the cubicle shut, and then lay back on the sofa and closed his eyes.

It was like falling asleep. But as he relaxed, the sensation grew, not like a dream, but like waking up. He heard a man swearing in the main room, but the sound diminished. He breathed deeply. The chill washed over his arm.

Pacifica XII took place on an island in the south seas. He guessed it was one of the extreme adventure series and that it would involve the basics: typhoons, natives who were cannibals, the Robinson Crusoe routine, sharks in the water, pirates, native women, and so on. The beach appeared to him as a long stretch of sand, and the edge of it, where the waves washed up and slipped away, looked like a mirrored plane, although in the distance the gray mirror disappeared in the shimmer of heat, the wet sheen of it blending perfectly with the liquid and mercury-like mirage. He could see, in this fluid heat, the reflection of someone, the gentle swaying of hips matching the undulation of the heat. Whoever it was appeared to be waist-deep in the heat, and as Briggs stood there, his hand over his brow, the image went across the sand and into the jungle. He turned that way too.

The jungle was like a wall of leaves, and the shadows underneath them appeared in shades of green on green. He saw little stars in the shade, which he supposed was an aftereffect of the bright light on the beach. The sand squeaked under his feet as he hurried into the green shade, where orchids hung in scarlet and white chains, the petals open and wet. Above him a parrot preened, its blue and red feathers opening like a hand of cards. The jungle buzzed around him, a million insects at work. A moth with pink wings hung on a trunk, and some red ants made a chain into the heart of a flower, which was filled with a sweet fluid. It was cool here, out of the sun, as refreshing as walking into a florist’s cold chest. Butterflies floated here and there like blue checks. Water formed bright pendants, the color of mercury, as it dripped.

Kay stood behind a screen of ferns, the fronds of which opened like a fan. Behind her a cascade of orchids hung from the vegetation, the vermilion petals fitting together like the scales in an armored suit. Briggs reached out to push the fronds aside, like green jalousies, but they wouldn’t budge until she stepped back.

“This way,” she said.

He stepped into the place where she had stood. The light on the floor of the jungle lay like scattered pieces of a green and gold jigsaw puzzle. The light flickered over her back and head as she went, although after she had gone a few steps she stopped.

“What are these flowers?” she asked. “Are they orchids?
Phalaenopsis?
Is that the variety?”

“What?” he said.

“Sweet Memory. Isn’t that Deventeriana X violacea? A hybrid.”

“Yes. I think that’s the variety,” he said.

“You didn’t think I knew that, did you?” she said.

He swallowed.

“No,” he said.

He looked around. The shades of green, one on top of another, seemed to pile up with an endless sense of variety. And depth. He swallowed. The leaves were shiny, firm, and when he tried to push them away to touch her, he found that he couldn’t. When his finger was just a fraction of an inch away, it stopped: he guessed this was the limit of the promotion. He knew one thing for sure: he had lost control.

“Don’t look so surprised,” she said.

“How did you know that?” he said.

“Oh,” she said. “I know you. It’s why I love you so. You are like an open book to me.”

He looked right at her.

“For instance,” she said. “Who are you worried about?”

“A man,” said Briggs.

“What’s his name?” she said.

“Krupp,” he said. “He works at Galapagos. He’s someone to worry about.”

She shrugged.

“You want me to take care of the problem?” she said. “I’m good at that kind of thing.”

She smiled.

“Kay,” he said. “Look . . . ”

“Darling,” she said. “Do you think I could stand by while someone did something to you?”

“Kay,” he said.

“The heat is so brutal,” she said. “Come over here.”

She went through the leaves, the petals of the orchids breaking away and falling in a mass, like butterflies all landing at the same moment. The trees rose above her hundreds of feet, and at their bottom the trunks had enormous supports, like rocket fins, to keep them upright. Parrots preened and screeched.

The house she went into had a thatched roof and a veranda and it had been built at the edge of a small clearing. The interior shade was a brownish green. In the main room he saw a bed with mosquito netting, which she pushed aside and climbed under. She was wearing Spandex shorts and a T-shirt.

She put her head on a pillow and pulled the netting shut. He sat next to her and looked through the sheer netting at the shape of the veins in her skin, the angle of her hip as she tried to get comfortable. Outside, in the jungle, he heard the buzzing of the insects. From time to time a bird screeched, not plaintive so much as imploring, as though its voice weren’t responding to fear, but to desire.

She put her hand to her head.

“I’ve wanted to see you,” she said. “I even took a chance coming to your apartment. That was stupid.”

“Yes,” he said. “I knew you had been there, though.”

“How did you know?” she said.

“I could tell,” he said.

He put his hand against the sheer netting, but he couldn’t get any closer.

“Has anyone around you gotten sick?” said Briggs.

She looked at him through the netting.

“No,” she said.

“Where are you staying?”

“Come on. Don’t be that way,” she said. “You’ve got to trust me. That’s all I’m asking for. Is that such a big thing?”

He went on looking at her. What was hidden in that glance, in that flirtatious smile?

“I just need a little time,” she said.

“What’s it for?” he said.

“Oh, I’ve got a little chore to do,” she said.

“Like what?” he said.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she said, turning a full, pink-lipped smile on him. Then she put her lips against the netting, the threads crossing them in squares. “Put your lips close,” she said.

“Look,” he said.

“No,” she said. “Trust me. When I’m done, I’ll find you. Isn’t that enough? Do you think a promise from me is worthless?”

In the air around them, a mosquito flew through a series of figureeights. It made a slight buzzing too. The lazy and repeated pattern the insect described almost put Briggs to sleep, and when he lowered his eyes he found that she was looking into them.

“Well?” she said. “Do you think I don’t keep my word?”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he said. “I don’t know what you’re planning, what you are thinking of, what you want . . . ”

“Now you are asking me to be indiscreet, too,” she said. “Oh, I wouldn’t do that. Put your ear against the netting here. Right there . . . I want to tell you what I have been dreaming of.” She whispered, the words coming through the netting in small puffs. “And you didn’t think I could bitch you up, did you?”

“What is the chore?” he said.

Through the netting he saw her skin flush, the anger coming over her with a sudden, pink tint.

She sat up and put her mouth against the netting. “You know what I think? Bravery has a practical benefit,” she said. “It keeps you from dying like some sniveling coward. See?”

Briggs waited, watching her.

She sighed and looked around. Just like that, the anger vanished. She kept her eyes on his as she spoke. What wouldn’t she do to make sure he cared for her in the same way she cared for him? It wasn’t physical so much as a way of finding access to how they both felt: what she wanted was a trance, a buzzing communion that revealed how much they were perfect for one another. As she spoke the same words over and over, they were like liturgical phrases. Briggs could almost see a figure swaying back and forth in the incense smoke and golden highlights of a church or shrine, the words repeated until their meaning had been absorbed in the hypnosis of faith. That is how she felt about him. Did he understand?

She pulled off her T-shirt, the muscles along her stomach contracting as she did so. The Spandex of her shorts made a little tearing sound as she pulled them off.

“It’s so hot,” she said.

She put a pillow under her head.

“Will you take me out for ice cream?” she said. “I want to go out in the heat of the afternoon and eat vanilla ice cream.”

“All right,” he said. “Let’s make a date.”

She smiled.

“Oh,” she said. “You think you are clever, don’t you?” She smiled. “I’ll contact you.”

“Kay,” he said. “I’ll worry about Krupp. Leave him to me.”

She winked.

“Are you going to let me love you or not?” she said.

The parrots squawked outside, and in the distance he heard the sound of the surf, the susurrus of it adding to the languid nature of the heat and the afternoon.

Kay turned on her side and slept. He sat next to the netting and watched the expansion of her ribs, the way the muscles stretched over them, the line of small bones that ran down the middle of her back, the shape of one hip, tilted, as she lay on the thin, tropical mattress. She murmured in her sleep, and rolled over, one arm falling languidly over her head. Outside, in the sunlight, bits of insects, nothing more than golden filaments, moved through the air.

He went through the decisions he had made that had brought him to this moment, each one small and seemingly minor, but all of them adding up, the calculus of them leaving him with the sense of being able to see who and what he really was. In the distance, when he looked out the door and across the veranda, he saw a rainbow as the sunlight shone through the vapor that came from a wave breaking over the reef. How could he do the right thing?

“My darling,” she said, waking up now, her voice sleepy.

My darling . . .

In that same sleepy voice, she said, “You know I keep thinking about having a child. But, Briggs, would you protect the child?”

“Kay,” he said. “That’s a long way off . . . ”

“Is it?” she said. “Well. Tell me. Theoretically speaking?”

“What do you think?” he said.

“I have my hopes,” she said. “That you won’t fail me.”

She got up from the bed and pulled on her shorts and shirt and went out, into the veranda, and when she turned, all that was left was the rainbow over the reef. She vanished into the flowers and the shade, the shapes of the parrot’s feathers opening and closing.

The weave of the mosquito netting interfered with itself where it hung in folds around the bed. After a while he stood up, the tropical flooring giving under his feet. Then he went down the steps and into the shade where the parrots preened their head feathers, their black beaks searching along a wing for a spot that itched. Briggs walked through the jungle and emerged onto the light and heat of the beach. Then he opened his eyes and heard the voices in the gaming parlor, angry and insistent, despairing or triumphant.

“How did you like it?” asked an attendant.

“It was all right,” said Briggs.

“Oh, it was better than that,” said the attendant. “You’ll be back. I can always tell. This one is going to be a hit.”

“I don’t know,” said Briggs. “It depends.”

BOOK IV

CHAPTER 1

April 18, 2029

THE FIRST names started to appear on the walls. They were written in the New Wave script, which was wavy, the letters drifting into each other, and done in such a way as to suggest three dimensions. Something like subway graffiti, but more intricate, harder to do just right. Of course, a lot of people tried to settle old scores by just putting names on the wall, but they couldn’t get the script right. The lame or the uncool tried, but it never looked right. You could tell they weren’t authentic.

Briggs stood in front of a wall. The script looked right.

Once your name was up, you could start waiting for the piss and fishy odor of a Mungo Man, who reached out for you in the hallway of your building, the cold touch of his fingers, the stink of his breath all showing that, as far as the New Wave was concerned, you had been found wanting. Were your clothes right? Your slang? Or were you out-of-date and speaking the Language of the Dead? One night you smelled the fishy odor and felt the surprising bump, just like being punched, but that’s the way the ice pick felt. After that, they went through your apartment for what was left.

This is why a sniff of disdain about one’s style was so ominous: you could be on the way out. The New Waves were cool, and who didn’t want to be cool? Of course, when one came, it was used to get rid of people who were in the way.

Briggs recognized two of the names. One was an impossibly dowdy woman who worked at Galapagos. She left used Kleenex around, and her blouses had sweat stains on them. She picked her teeth with a matchbook. But Briggs had always liked her. She did her work and never said anything stupid. Briggs put his head against the wall. Mashita was the other name.

That leaves just the two of us, me and Krupp,
he thought.

Everything was quiet, but then he heard a shuffling as a man came along on the pavement. The footfalls seemed erratic, as though someone who kept a dog to beat was dragging the thing along the pavement. Then the Mungo Man stooped and looked up at the script on the wall. He wore a gray coat that, even in the darkness, had the sheen of a fly. He took a stump of pencil and a piece of brown paper out of his pocket, spreading the paper on the wall. Then the Mungo Man looked up, moving his lips as he read the names. The flylike sheen on his coat was exotic, like a peacock feather, and yet deadly too, as though the color were associated with a serious medical condition. Gangrene, for instance. The man smelled of sweat, food, piss. He wrote slowly, checking the names, the work done one letter at a time with the cadence of a grave digger who has learned that the way to get through the work is with a steady, deceptively slow pace. The Mungo Man’s eyes went back and forth, between the paper and the wall, and then he turned and looked at Briggs.

“Your name here?” said the Mungo Man.

“No,” said Briggs.

“Sure?” said the Mungo Man.

“Yes,” said Briggs.

“Then what are you hanging around for?” said the Mungo Man. He stepped closer to Briggs.

“There’s no law against standing here,” said Briggs.

“You’re going to talk to me about law?” said the Mungo Man. “Say, what’s your name?”

“That’s all right,” said Briggs.

The Mungo Man took a step closer, his nose almost up to Briggs’s. The brown paper made a crinkling sound as it was folded up and stuck in a pocket of the man’s coat. The Mungo Man nodded to himself, then he stood back, glanced once at the enormous, stylish script on the wall. The mist seemed to be absolutely still, fish-colored, and it smelled of the ocean. The Mungo Man turned and walked away, his gait irregular but still having purpose. He jerked his gimpy leg, grunted at the effort, and disappeared into the mist.