So Jenny had grown up changing diapers, freezing teething toys, and ignoring the irrational screams of infants. She knew to regard the latter as expressions of the normal kinks in their new little bodies—the coughing sputters of engines being, for the first time, turned on. She did not try to assess the emotional implications of Colin’s crying jags, or pinpoint the elaborate physical causes of his fussing (the “allergies” so popularly discussed in mothers’ groups and message boards online). This was a great advantage, she realized, watching other women trying to apply their finely honed anlaytical skills to their babies. No wonder they turned to therapy in droves!
At home, Colin was sitting in his sleek, modern-design high chair in the hideous “Heartbreaker” bib Maria had bought for him, serenely eating sweet potatoes off a spoon. His mouth, his nose, his hands, and the tray were frighteningly clean—Maria kept a wet cloth diaper on hand to wipe up every smidgen of food, a habit Jenny worried would make Colin persnickety. In her experience, babies were supposed to eat like maniacs and leave their high chairs covered with food from head to toe, ready for a bath.
“Hola.” Maria looked up at Jenny’s entrance with a worried expression on her face.
“Maria,” Jenny said, “let him make a mess!” but Maria’s expression stopped her.
“Mr. Jeremy is upstairs. He come home before an hour, not feeling so good. He look”—she made a frightful face and drew a hand down over her features—“so white—like a ghost! I ask him if I can bring him anything, but he want—”
“He’s upstairs?”
Maria nodded.
“Hi, baby,” Jenny said, turning to Colin, who looked at her impassively and then refocused on the spoon Maria was holding, stopped midair. He was not the most satisfying baby to come home to. She leaned over and planted a kiss on his head despite her irrational sense of wounded pride.
Upstairs, Jeremy was lying on his back in bed with the shades drawn and the sheets hiked up to his chin. He did look frighteningly pale. His eyes were closed, but they opened when Jenny sat down on the bed.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “Are you sick?”
Jeremy closed his eyes again. “I feel weird.”
“Weird how? Do you need to go to the doctor?”
“I went.”
“You went? What do you mean, you went? When?” Alarm coursed through Jenny.
“Yesterday.”
“You didn’t say anything! What did the doctor say?”
“He didn’t. He didn’t know what the problem was.”
“Oh.” It felt hot and stuffy in the room with the blinds down and windows closed. Outside it was beautiful—a clear, bright spring day. “Do you mind if I open these?”
Jeremy winced slightly and turned on his side, away from the windows.
“What’s going on? Does it bother you—the light?”
“A little.”
Jenny stared at her husband, his bony body outlined under the sheet.
“Jeremy,” she said. “What did the doctor say? Was he concerned?”
Jeremy didn’t open his eyes. “He’s running some tests.”
The stuffy dark of the room seemed suddenly oppressive. The green carpeting, the drapes, the thick burgundy sheets—they had to get out of here, get settled in their new, airy, spacious house. “Tests,” she repeated. And for the first time she considered the fact that possibly her husband might not simply be a malingerer.
7
THE STORYLINE OF PROMETHEU SYNDROME, the game that Neil had been hired to add to, was pretty much standard gaming fare. A benevolent race of highly evolved beings from the planet Xanadu find themselves under attack by a cunning and selfish alien race. To preserve the secrets of their peace and enlightenment from being extinguished they hide a digital tablet in a distant galaxy on a backward and uncivilized planet called Earth. This planet is ruled by a foolish, rudimentary species called human beings, who are confined to their own infinitely fallible bodies and do nothing but blunder around trying to make money and driving nasty, planet-destroying automobiles.
Ultimately Earth becomes the battleground-du-jour of the epic struggle between warring factions of the universe. The digital tablet, of course, seems to be the only prayer the compromised and beleaguered earthlings have for surviving the crossfire of the nasty aliens running amok on their planet. First they have to find it, and then—here was the premise for Prometheus II—once they have found it, they have to decode it, protect it from their adversaries, and decide whether to put its powerful contents to use.
Neil saw multiple problems in this foundation. What the hell was a “digital tablet,” and whose imagination did such a thing really appeal to? Furthermore, what gamer would decide not to use its contents once they were decoded? And the earthlings who came across this thing in a sea cave off the island of Madagascar (this was where Johnson had left them at the end of Prometheus I) were a tiresome group of geologists who said things like “Wass up, bro?” and “Gotcha” all the time. The enemy characters were downright juvenile: a shape-shifting alien princess who favored being a swimsuit model as her disguise of choice, a two-headed dragon, a greedy, toupee-wearing human physicist, and, of course, the headless nymphomaniacs from the planet Praxis.
Neil’s work began with tackling the digital tablet. This was clear. From here everything else would flow. His idea for the fix came out of his conversation with Laura. What if in fact this digital tablet turned out to be alive? What if, instead of some computerized scroll of commands and information, it was an animal—a unicornlike chimera? Maybe suspended in some sort of frozen amniotic fluid à la Woody Allen in Sleeper. It would be a specimen whose very cells held the key to freedom and power—a sort of biological Rosetta stone. There was so much possibility that came with this. There would be those who wanted to kill it to get at the answers, and those who felt the secrets it held could be accessed only through its life. And there would be the fertile, and not-yet-completely-exhausted-by-the-gaming-industry, substance of DNA to unpack. It would point Prometheus Syndrome II into the timely green current of scientific exploration, sweep it away from the graying detritus of physics and computers, of outdated cultural artifacts like PalmPilots and the movie TRON.
“What kind of creature?” was Steven Closter’s predictably nonplussed response to the idea. “Like a rhinoceros?” he said, snickering. The man was a savant. He had no imagination and no sense of the profound.
“I was thinking more like a dachshund,” Neil said, and enjoyed the uncertain look on Steven’s sarcastic face.
Rod Emerus was, also predictably, more enthusiastic. “That’s good,” he said, giving Neil a shrewd look. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You read Scientific American?”
“No.”
Neil found himself, once again, in the awkward position of sitting directly across the conference table from Rod, which was intense—too intense for nine a.m.—given the man’s penchant for prolonged eye contact.
“There was an article about the domestication of biotechnology in last week’s issue. Check it out.”
“I will.”
“What else?”
“About the game?”
Emerus nodded irritably.
“Well, an overhaul of the enemies. Less focus on the aliens. Get rid of—”
Emerus waved his hand. “Right. Fine. I meant anything else profound. Fundamental.”
Neil hesitated. “Yeah,” he said, although he had not really thought this through. “Breeding.”
Emerus raised his eyebrows.
“Genetic engineering. Something they learn from this animal—this living key to the universe. Making things.”
Emerus continued his penetrating gaze and Steven Closter looked from him to Neil and back again like someone observing a tennis match.
“I like it,” Emerus said, knocking his pale knuckles on the table. “All right, then.” He rose from his chair, which made rude squeaking noises. And beside him, Harry Fontaine, his nervous, bespecta
cled assistant, rose as well.
“The marketing—” Harry began.
“Right. Cancel your Warcraft face-off matches or what have you. You have a meeting at two with the ad sales team.”
And with that Emerus and Harry left the room, leaving Neil squirming with shame at being included in this kind of industry joke. As if he were spending his afternoons engaged in online role-playing games! The fact that, come to think of it, he sometimes did only made it worse.
Back at his desk, there was one message and two caller ID calls from Laura. Neil felt suddenly overwhelmingly tired. Here he was in Boxborough, Massachusetts, writing a computer game and having an affair with a married woman. He could practically see Jane pushing up her glasses in that reproving way of hers, chewing on an end of her dark hair, shaking her head. Five weeks of being unattached and this was what he was doing with himself. He had an urge to simply drop his head onto his arms at the cluttered fiberboard desk he had been given and go to sleep. But it was only his first week on the job. This could be misconstrued. So instead he grabbed the pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and headed out into the sun.
Breeding. For a minute there he had actually felt a flash of excitement. A burst of true enthusiasm for his work—as if this genetic engineering he had thought of adding to the gameplay was in some way important, would actually have some power to, what—reflect? transform? hold currency in?—the real world. Ridiculous. He had to catch himself with shit like that or he’d end up just like Steven Closter, or even Joe, that poor, snuffly, ass-kissing kid who had toured him around on his first day at ZGames. Delusional. That was what it was. All-American delusional, getting caught up in the minutiae of something as small as a video game without considering its frivolity, its utter insignificance, in the larger world. Better to stick to researching the life of Albert Sorenson Jones—this, at least, was fundamental. Someone’s life. At least just a little bit, it mattered.
The landscape of the office park ZGames stood in the middle of was absolutely deadening: manicured, anonymous, deflecting of the elements so that even the lovely peculiarities of sunshine (the way it filtered through leaves or glanced off of sideview mirrors, the way it glowed on a pelt of grass) were deadened. The sun became just one thing: bright. The grass became just one thing: green.
Neil closed his eyes against this, sitting at the round carved-granite table beside the entrance on a rounded carved-granite bench. Had there ever been a less inviting place to sit? But he was simply too tired to walk around. He smoked for a full minute like this, eyes shut.
When he opened his eyes there was a girl in front of him, lurking off to the other side of the mirrored-glass entrance and trying to light a cigarette of her own. She was short and petite, with blunt-cut, chin-length brown hair. Her manner of flicking the lighter, cupping her hand (unnecessarily in this windless cul de sac) in front of her cigarette, radiated energy. Neil sat up straight and jerked his arm—his dead-looking, pale arm—off the table and onto his lap.
“Sorry,” the girl said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” She had a slight accent and a novice’s way of almost sucking on the cigarette now that it was lit.
“No, no,” Neil protested for no reason. “That’s what I get for sleeping in public.”
“But you weren’t sleeping,” she said with a smirk. “You were smoking.”
“Right.” He said, feeling inexplicably annoyed.
“You work here?” she tilted her head toward the building.
“I do.”
“And this is where you have to come to have a smoke?”
“Beats the men’s room.” Neil stood and ground his cigarette out under his heel.
“America,” she said, rolling her eyes and sucking on her cigarette again.
“Hm.” Neil shrugged noncommittally. “Enjoy,” he said curtly, heading back in through the mirrored doors. Something about the girl’s obvious derision galled him. Not that he disagreed with her—it was a hideous place to have to smoke. For that matter, it was a hideous place to have to work. But still. He had felt implicated in her critique—a part of, rather than apart from, this monstrous example of the American quotidian.
He walked through the cool, featureless foyer to the back of the building and into the parking lot. He would have to call Laura from here. It could not be done from his desk—or from the front of the building now that the girl was there.
“Neil,” Laura said when she picked up. Her voice was breathy, full of delight.
“Lo,” he said.
“Hi.”
An early-season cricket chirped from the bushes behind him.
“What’s up?”
“Oh.” Laura sounded taken aback.
He could imagine her straightening, frowning a little. She was so transparent, Laura. There was no contrivance in her, and no game. It made him feel almost sorry for her—how did she manage in the world?
“I don’t know…” she said. “I guess I just wanted to tell you—to make sure you knew—you know, that I’m not freaked out. I know you thought I was. You were probably worried I’d go cuckoo on you or something. But I’m not. I’m just”—she paused—“happy. That’s all. That’s what I called to say.”
“That’s sweet,” he said, smiling despite himself. They were silent for a moment.
“And you…” she said. “Do you feel—are you okay…?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m fine.”
In the hiccup of silence that followed, he realized he was supposed to offer something more here, something positive. “I’m glad. I had a great time with you.”
“Good.”
There was another silence. This one tinged with awkwardness.
“Do you want—I guess we didn’t really talk about ‘the future.’” He hated himself for saying it so ironically, so Johnson-esquely, with such obvious quotation marks.
“Ugh,” Laura said. “God forbid.”
“Right.” Neil laughed. “I just mean…do you want to get together again—I mean, for coffee or a drink or whatever? Not—”
Laura laughed. “Well, no. Yes. I’ll take ‘whatever.’”
“Okay.”
Abruptly, the cricket’s chirp shut off. Neil began shaking a new cigarette from the pack out of habit, and then stopped himself, shoved it back.
“I’m in this crappy parking lot right now—you should see it. It’s like”—he paused—“post-human. Can I call you later?”
“Of course! That sounds awful. Post-human.”
“It is. All right—I’ll call you after work.”
“Okay.” She sounded a little sad.
“Lo…” he said impulsively. “I love you.”
“Oh!”
“All right—talk to you.”
He closed his cell phone and shoved it into his pocket. Now he’d really done it. What a fucking mess. He meant it. He loved her. She was so sweet, and so good, and so pretty. But those words—they were dangerous words. He should know better. Thirty-five years old and behaving like a twenty-one-year-old. Behaving like an idiot. Maybe he was not capable of navigating this world on his own after all. For the first time since he had left her, he actually felt some nostalgia for Jane and her psychiatrist-like sensibilities, the aura of frankness and control she exuded, that, if nothing else, he had been able to crawl up and be absorbed into.
The moment he stepped into the conference room he knew it. Almost before he saw her. The marketing girl. Of course. That was who she was. It was as if, on some level, he had known the cigarette break would not be the last he saw of her. She was sitting at the table with ZGames’ own intrepid promo team—a tall, blond, but unattractive duo who looked more like brother and sister than coworkers. Heidi and Ulrich, his brain supplied. These were not their real names: Neil vaguely remembered being introduced to them. But Heidi and Ulrich was good.
Beside Heidi, the marketing girl looked downright pretty, although she wasn’t.
“You!” she said, laughing. “The sleeping smoker!”
“This is Galena Ibanesku,” Heidi said with a smile frozen on her face as if to acknowledge this bit of repartee would have been untoward. “Neil Banks, Steven Closter.”
Galena rose to shake their hands.
“Galena’s here to talk with you about an exciting new opportunity we all have here,” Ulrich said.
“Exciting, hunh?” Steven mocked, and for once Neil felt a twinge of appreciation for him. Had they no shame, these marketing people? How could they honestly adhere to this tired language of hyperbole so widely mocked that it had for years been fodder for improv groups and Saturday Night Live skits?
“Well, we think so,” Ulrich replied huffily. “And you would too if you thought about where your next paycheck was coming from.”
“Okay,” Galena said in that blunt Eastern European way of hers. “Okay. No squabbling.”
This did not seem to be an auspicious start for the meeting.
Heh, heh, heh, everyone laughed uncomfortably.
“So,” Heidi plowed ahead, still smiling. “Galena is here from Genron, which has just signed an unusual new product placement plan with us that I think you will find very interesting to integrate…”
Neil’s brain remained stuck on Genron. That was Jenny Callahan’s company. This girl, this Galena, probably knew Jenny. Possibly worked with her, even. The idea was startling—an intrusion of one mental space into another. And it seemed, somehow, to connect the girl to the baby. His baby. The thought pinged through Neil’s mind like an alarm that had been wound all this time, waiting, springs loaded, to go off.
“Do you want to take it from here, Galena?” Heidi was saying, still smiling plastically.
“Sure,” Galena said. She had an aggressive way about her, not at all like most women in marketing whom Neil had encountered. Except for Jenny. She was, in this, a little like Jenny, actually. “You are maybe wondering why Setlan,” Galena said. “Why computer games as a marketplace for Setlan? But the answer is not so difficult to understand. You see…” She opened a folder and distributed a set of news articles neatly copied and stapled. The first of these bore a headline that read “Survey Finds High Incidence of Depression in Computer Game Players.”
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