A Ghost for a Clue

by C L R Draeco

  “Well, goddamn it. I never listened to ’er when we were married. So I’m not listenin’ to ’er now.”

  “There’s no hurry. It’s only been . . .” I glanced at the monitor. “Thirteen minutes.” Christ. How much time does a “soul” take to leave?

  “I’m just saying, a dog’s short life is his only fault.” Quince got up and shrugged. “You’re better off knowing he’s resting in peace than living a life of pain.”

  “Pain?” Roy rose from the floor. “If you don’t shut the hell up, I can show you pain.”

  “I’m just helping you embrace your loss.”

  “How would you like to embrace my fist with your face?”

  Roy charged. I shot out of my seat. Quince fell backwards in his chair onto the floor.

  I held my arm out to block Roy. “Come on, mate. Let it go.”

  Quince, still sprawled on the ground, opened his mouth again. “I think—”

  “Shut up, Quince,” I said.

  “But—”

  “I said shut up!” I barked.

  For several seconds, nobody moved. Then, Quince slowly, cautiously raised a finger towards the Motown. “Look,” he said.

  Roy and I turned our heads and saw a faint glow emanating from the bottom of the iCube.

  Roy rushed to the chamber. “Atta boy. Good dawg, Boner!”

  I checked the computer readings and winced at the looped symbol for infinity: The estimated time left for the—What do I call it?—the “upload?”

  Quince got up, righted his chair, and collapsed in a spent heap onto it.

  The status bar popped to life. “Oh, Jesus,” I said. “It says 1,052 days left. That’s almost three years.”

  “You’re shittin’ me.”

  “Now it says ninety-five days.” I grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, mate. Should’ve known better. It’s going to keep moving up and down for a while.”

  “That’s still three fuckin’ months!” Roy turned to the chamber and bellowed. “C’mon, Boner. Hop to it!”

  46

  Full-Flavored Frequencies

  Just as I was enjoying the best part of my dream where I was commanding an intergalactic mission, Roy nudged me awake. The iCube status bar that kept track of Boner’s upload was less than an inch to the top.

  I squinted at Roy through my groggy state. “How’re you doing?”

  “Flyin’ like a golf ball aimin’ for a hole in one.” He said it with a faint smile, his eyes brimming with hope as he stared at the iCube. It seemed impossible, but he really did look like he already felt better than I did. Quince let out a loud burp and crumpled his beer can.

  Roy switched the TV from the movie he and Quince were watching to closed-circuit mode then got up and opened what I thought was some vintage refrigerator positioned next to the Motown.

  “This ’ere’s what I call The Cellar.” The top shelf was empty, but right underneath was a black version of the iCube attached to vials and canisters set up in neat rows all the way to the bottom. “This whole setup is designed to pump energy into the iCube so it never runs out. I got me some nonlinear stuff down there servin’ as frequency doublers and triplers so the food Boner gets is full-flavored when it comes to frequencies. You know what I’m sayin’?”

  I nodded. “Because you don’t know exactly what range he’ll need, you’re giving him everything.”

  “Damn straight. It’ll be churnin’ out EM waves at varying frequencies, so it resonates through the whole EM spectrum—from ELF to IR, UV, all the way up to gamma.”

  “Why do you call it The Cellar?” I asked.

  “’Cause the temperature inside is regulated, and everythin’ there’s protected from harsh light and vibrations. So it’s kinda like a wine cellar for the soul.”

  I shook my head in amazement. “I’m gobsmacked over how you figured this all out.”

  “You kiddin’ me? I just followed the trail o’ puzzle pieces you guys were tossin’ behind you at the Green Manor. You just didn’t have an old dog chasin’ your tail to put it all together to be worth anythin’.”

  We stood clustered together, watching the status bar as Roy counted down after it hit the ten second mark.

  “Three . . . two . . . one.”

  Completely lit, the iCube gave off one bright pulse which settled down to a cool and steady glow.

  “Sweet hello hallelujah,” I whispered. Quince bounced on the balls of his feet, while Roy beamed like a dad about to greet his new baby.

  “Okay, Boner. I’m comin’ in.” Roy opened the chamber door, and a rank odor drifted out—the smell of fear, sickness, and death combined in an unseen fog. He took the iCube out then placed it on the top shelf of The Cellar, connected it to the black cube, then shut the cellar door.

  “Let’s rock n’ roll!” He dashed to the console and turned a knob. Just like the Transhades at the Green Manor greenhouses, the glass at the rear of the Motown darkened. “Whatever data the system gets, it’s gonna project it onto that panel. We’ll see it on that monitor too.” He cocked his head towards the TV. “It’s not as fancy as our 3D chamber, but it’ll do.” He gave me two thumbs up.

  With a deep breath, I activated the Verdabulary and triggered Boner’s computer-assisted reincarnation. We all stared at the chamber. Seconds ticked by, but nothing happened. Even the TV screen remained blank.

  “Holy fuck, man. He better be in there.”

  “Maybe the cables are loose,” Quince suggested.

  “The cables are fine,” Roy said.

  I cracked my knuckles, aching to fix computer codes but didn’t know where to start. I tugged my chair forward and the keyboard closer, pointless motions to help the process along.

  Roy banged his hand down on the table. “What the hell’s takin’ so long?”

  Quince backed one step away from Roy.

  “Okay, let’s just . . . catch our breath here,” I said. “It’s still early in the game. Maybe the program’s still—”

  “Extrapolatin’? Extrapo-fuckin’ my ass!” Roy punched and kicked on the door of The Cellar, cracking it open, then he charged towards the chamber and raised a fist at the glass.

  “No, don’t!” Quince shouted.

  Roy froze and slowly lowered his hand, laying it down gently on the glass chamber. “Goddamit, Boner.” He fell to his knees and talked to his best friend’s body through the glass. “I know you gave it all you got. But we just never had practice. I never got to teach you what to do.” His shoulders slumped, and he wept in silence.

  I bowed my head and struggled for something to say. I recalled the most comforting thing people had said to me when I myself had been grieving.

  If there’s anything I can do . . .

  I swallowed. It wasn’t something I wanted to say now. Because I’d done enough.

  Like a tired old man, Roy hauled himself up to his feet. “I guess it’s time to lay him in his grave out back. Give ’im his peace.”

  I stood beside him and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. His grief was just beginning. The worst will be when he realizes what “permanent” really means.

  Quince and I helped bring Boner’s body out of the chamber. There was hardly a sound as Roy placed him in a box and covered him with a soft flannel blanket.

  He laid his hand on the sheet. “I’ll see you in heaven, buddy.” His faith in my equation having been shattered, he’d gone back to believing in the one thing that would make Boner’s death bearable.

  “Here,” Quince said, handing him Boner’s dog collar. “He won’t need this where he’s going.”

  I turned away from the sad reminder that keeping remembrances was the most anyone could do. Then from the corner of my eye, I caught movement in the huge TV monitor. I took a closer look and jerked back at what I was seeing—or thought I was seeing. I darted a glance at the chamber but couldn’t detect anything from where I stood, so I moved closer. As I watched, breath on hold, a pinprick of light floated from the top and descended until it hovered over the fl
oor. It slowly expanded until it looked every bit like the faintest of orbs.

  “Well, I’ll be stuffed,” I said softly as I stared at the image.

  “Whoa,” Quince said, stepping closer. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “What’s that?” Roy asked with a frown.

  The dim, translucent sphere circled where Boner’s body had lain. I looked at the TV where it was far more visible—flickering between shades of yellow, blue, and gray.

  “Close the door!” Quince pointed towards The Cellar. “He might escape.”

  “No, he’s safe in the willdisc,” I said. “And I think . . .” I eyed the cellar door Roy had kicked open, “. . . he needs to sense Roy to transmit.”

  “Hell, that can’t be all we got o’ my dog. What the hell is it?”

  I went back to the console to check the readings. “All’s good, as far as I can tell.”

  “Goddamit.” Roy charged towards the chamber. “Don’t fuck with me, Boner. Show me all you got.” He hunkered down and inspected all the cables snaking across the floor. Then he checked all the connections in The Cellar and those leading out of it.

  I squinted at the TV where the orb seemed to be moving in unison with him and remembered the time when Thomas’s hyperwill had responded to Torula in real time. On a hunch, I opened a simple video editing app so I could superimpose one footage over the other. The camera Roy had set up on a tripod was aimed at the chamber. I manipulated it and set it to track Roy as he moved around, then—keying out the dark background of the floating orb—I superimposed it over Roy’s image. The ball of light moved alongside him.

  I grinned at the little orb that glowed like a flickering sign of hope.

  “Dude, this is like . . . wow.” Quince, diluted by beer, was stripped of all poetry.

  Roy went down on all fours tracing the cable lines underneath the console, and onscreen, the glowing sphere hopped up and down next to him.

  “Roy?” I said.

  “What?” Roy answered with his nose to the ground.

  “I think you’d want to see this.”

  Roy shot up like a meerkat craning at something in the distance.

  “Walk around,” I said. “It’s following you.”

  Roy got up and strode away from the chamber and back again, then went from one corner to the next. The orb turned every which way he went.

  Quince grinned wide. “This is killing me, man. It’s pumped up rad.”

  Roy, arms akimbo, gaped at the screen. “That’s it? That’s my Boner in the afterlife? A tiny pipsqueak of a wiener? You gotta be shittin’ me!”

  “He’s a dog,” Quince said. “Of course, he’s small.”

  “And maybe . . .” I hated to admit it. “Eldritch might be right. Maybe animals don’t have data on what they look like. No self-awareness.”

  Quince nodded to a much faster inner beat. “Yeah, makes sense. Dogs bark at themselves in the mirror. They can’t tell it’s them. Come to think of it . . .” He moved closer to the monitor. “The colors of the orb . . .” The ball oscillated from brown to yellow to gray to blue. “That’s about the full spectrum of what a dog can see. Just yellow and blue and smudged-up shades of those.”

  Roy stood silent, eyes to the ground, then slowly turned to look at his dog’s body beneath the flannel blanket.

  “He may have no idea what he looks like,” I said, “but he sure remembers you.”

  Quince glanced at the tattoos on his arms and gave them an inconspicuous rub.

  Roy bent down and held out his hand at thin air. On the monitor, the small opalescent ball glided forward. Roy wiggled his fingers, as though rubbing the area atop Boner’s head. The orb began to fluctuate side to side—seemingly wagging in pure canine bliss.

  “Hey, boy. Is that really you?” Roy knelt down, and the orb bounced all over him. He looked up at me, tears in his eyes. “He’s alive, man. What else can I say? He’s alive.”

  47

  The Emergency Meeting

  Despite having spent all night figuring out how to raise a dog from the dead, I’d managed to show up on time at Schwarzwald for Eldritch’s emergency meeting. With caffeine filling in for consciousness, I slouched down in a conference room chair and yawned. I was so groggy, I felt tipsy, and the country-cottage atmosphere and garden-scented air weren’t helping at all.

  Torula leaned over and whispered, “Can you try a little harder to look alive?”

  She had no idea what Roy and I had been through, and there was no easy way to explain it. With a grunt, I pushed myself up on the chair.

  Eldritch, dressed in his dapper version of death, sat next to the rainbow-clad Starr, facing the hi-tech monitor in the old-fashioned meeting room. I apologized on Roy’s behalf that he wouldn’t be able to join us.

  Eldritch frowned. “That’s unfortunate because I wanted him to explain something.” He picked up the remote control. “I saw footage of a horse’s hyperwill and everyone trying to pass it off as a recording. But more notably, there’s a snippet of Mr. Radio saying this.”

  He played an audio clip of Roy saying, “Maybe we can make a willdisc from pig brain!”

  Eldritch turned his ice-cold gaze towards me. “This willdisc. Is it something you plan to use on Thomas?”

  I looked back at him through woozy eyes, relieved the topic was the willdisc after all—and not a reporter spilling our secrets—and pointed at Starr. “She broke it.”

  She arched a brow. “And I would do so again, honey, if you attempt to use it to trap a human soul.”

  I pondered the possibility. “Maybe if we could get our hands on some pigs . . .”

  Starr’s eyes flared wide. “Can you believe this irreverence?”

  Torula stared open-mouthed at me for a moment. “What he means to say is . . . it was a fragile prototype, but . . .” She cleared her throat and faced them, sounding all business-like. “It’s an opportunity we should explore. Think of Thomas as a vulnerable life form. Like a hermit crab that’s lost its shell. The willdisc is an electrochemical environment that could save him from—”

  “Are you sure it’s to save him?” Starr asked. “Or is it to dissect, preserve, and display him like a naked crab in formaldehyde? I know, more than anything, you want to study him, Tor. He’s a human being, no matter what you think. So treat him like one.”

  I scrunched up my brow against the fluorescent lights that punished my eyes. “What about saving dogs? Cats have nine lives. Why can’t we give dogs another?”

  Torula nudged my coffee mug closer to me. “What he means, I think, is . . . this is like teaching an old dog new tricks. Why can’t we give this new technology a chance? Challenge old assumptions and—”

  “Because it’s breaking the law,” Starr said. “It is God’s law that we join Him in paradise and not linger here. We must guide every lost soul we find into that haven. Not to yours that’s made of glass.”

  “It’s crystal, actually,” I said, believing it mattered.

  The door swung open and in walked the benevolent-looking billionaire, Mr. Alexi Dumas. “It appears someone in this room has turned my hobby into a headache.” He stopped directly across the table from Starr and addressed her. “You know the reason I’m here, ja?”

  Starr clutched her necklace. “The T.R.O.?”

  Torula looked at her friend. “What T.R.O.?”

  So this is the real emergency? I straightened up in my seat.

  Mr. D enunciated each word. “A Petition for Injunction with Prayer for a Temporary Restraining Order.” Though his eyes showed displeasure, his amiable countenance remained. “I have been issued a document demanding that the Green Manor suspend Project Hyperwill until after a proper evaluation of its . . .‘scientific, ethical, and social implications.’ The plaintiff is a Bishop Isaac Benedict.”

  Torula drew in her breath. “Starr? You couldn’t have. This was our chance to study it.” She shook her head. “Our one chance.”

  Starr averted her gaze and said nothing.

>   “You broke the NDA,” Eldritch said.

  “I broke man’s law instead of God’s.” Starr looked him in the eye. “You have the right to fine me and to fire me. But what you’re doing is trespassing on sacred ground.”

  “But our aim is to save a soul,” Mr. D said. “Surely, the church would approve of that, ja?”

  “Not if you see things from his perspective.” Starr turned accusing eyes towards me. “Isn’t it your belief that the human soul is nothing but lifeless data?”

  Only yesterday, I would have given a decisive yes, but after last night, I wasn’t sure anymore. Boner’s “orb” was capable of real-time interactivity—repeating actions learned while still alive. But it was information stored in a vortex sine wave, feeding off energy supplies kept in a temperature-controlled cellar. It couldn’t be called a living thing, could it?

  “Is that hesitation I detect?” Starr asked. “Have Thomas’s manifestations convinced you of his sentience?”

  “Thomas?” I shook my head. “No. Not at all.”

  Starr rose from her seat. “Then I believe stopping things where they are is only right.” She addressed Mr. D. “If I may be excused, sir. I believe you understand my sentiments. There’s nothing more I can do for this project.”

  “By all means. You’ve done quite enough already.” At her departure, Mr. D sat down across from her empty seat.

  “So where does that leave us?” Torula asked, trying to salvage a dream.

  “At a grinding halt, I’m afraid.” The chairman’s default expression of a smile barely showed.

  “And we can’t do anything?” she asked, and it tugged at an old, familiar feeling inside me—that of wanting to breathe life into what others believed to be a dead ambition. “What if we set up identical conditions at another greenhouse?”