Exogenetic

by Michael S Nuckols

  “Drugs and therapy.”

  “I’m not keen on those either.”

  “I understand, but you need to do something.” Stone stood and put his stethoscope to Ridley’s back. “Breathe in and out.”

  Ridley complied. Stone tapped the wall-screen and added his findings.

  “I can’t lose my creativity,” Ridley said, “My ability to program is my livelihood. It requires that I see things differently from others.”

  “The risk of losing parts of your personality is very small. Mental illness shouldn’t be taken lightly.”

  “There’s nothing else you can do for me?”

  Stone draped his stethoscope around his neck. “Without surgery, psychotherapy is your only option. You may have to deal with this the old-fashioned way. I’ll give you an antidepressant, but drugs are really a poor choice compared to what we can do to fix this.”

  “Why is this occurring now?”

  “What’s new in your life?” Stone asked.

  Ridley considered for a moment.

  “Find someone to talk to. I can refer you to a good therapist if you like.”

  Ridley stared at the floor. He still felt the urge to scrape at his skin.

  “I’m serious, Ridley. You can’t bottle things up.”

  “I’ll take it into consideration.”

  Dr. Stone wrote a prescription and gave him a card for a therapist. Ridley thanked the man and left.

  The Toyota drove Ridley to a pharmacy kiosk. He got out and tapped the screen. “Please remove your sunglasses,” the machine said.

  Ridley did so, and the machine scanned his face. “Welcome back, Ridley Pierce. Please scan a second form of identification.”

  Ridley unlocked his phone. A prescription appeared on the screen. “Please wait.”

  The machine began whirring—printer, label, bottle, tumble of pills into the bottle, a twist of the lid and the medicine dispensed to the bottom of the vending machine. “It appears that you have never taken this before. Would you like to speak with a pharmacist?”

  “No,” Ridley answered.

  “Have a nice day!” the cheerful voice said.

  Ridley took the bottle and went to his car.

  “Home.” The car lurched ahead and pulled into traffic. He opened the bottle and studied one of the pills, twirling it between his fingers. In college, Ridley had avoided alcohol and illicit drugs while his peers were microdosing daily. His worst vice was caffeinated soda or black coffee.

  The car’s transmission whirred. A cathedral of music surrounded him. The jazzy technoswag was programmed to adapt to the car’s speed and direction of travel.

  Ridley swallowed a pill and chased it with soda.

  He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, as if he were expecting an immediate change.

  The voice came back to him. Her voice was soothing. “You can’t hide me behind pills or alcohol. This world exists because of me. You exist because I allow you to return.”

  Though infrequent, she never let him forget that she was inside his head. Ridley never understood her meaning.

  He had once thought that she spoke from the speaker implanted in the base of his skull, but her words continued long after the speaker had been removed. Her voice had always been with him, whispering in his ear. Ridley feared telling anyone the secret. He could never admit this to a therapist. “You’re not real,” he muttered.

  She replied, “You cannot hide from me.”

  Ridley did not attend the online group session that Dr. Stone had suggested. He sat on the sofa of his living room. “I can do this on my own.”

  Sandy was curled in his lap. He stroked her warm fur lovingly and hugged her close. “I will just stop doing it,” he said, “Willpower. That’s all I need.”

  The dog seemed to smile at the attention.

  Instead of ordering dinner, Ridley went online and ordered an ultraviolet light that would kill germs. The drone arrived within an hour. He installed it in the home’s foyer. Once the mansion was built, he would install them at every entrance and in the air handling system.

  The thought of another disaster plagued him. The botnet might release another disease, something to finish the job.

  At the first hint of an outbreak, he would stay at home and lock the doors. Many had survived the Collapse without injury by hiding. Like other survivors, Ridley had a stockpile of food. He had installed a propane tank large enough to fuel the home for two years; the mansion would have a larger one. He regretted giving away the chickens but the birds might spread germs.

  What happened if he caught the disease before it became known, before it became widespread? What if he became one of the first? “I’ll telecommute to Cerenovo from now on.”

  Ridley pedaled away on his bike up a steep hill when the tire popped. He walked the bike the rest of the way, passing people on Main Street as they ambled along the sidewalk. He reached his office and pushed the bike inside.

  Diane was peering into a microscope as she worked with a micropipette. He bumped her chair as he passed.

  “Damn it, Ridley,” she cried.

  “What?”

  “The lens shattered.”

  “Lens?”

  “For the optical sensor.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I didn’t mean to snap… It’s just that… Nothing seems to be working.”

  Ridley rolled his bike across the clean floor and leaned it against the wall. “I got a flat tire,” he complained, as if the comparison would make her feel better.

  Kelly was lining up blocks. He leaned down to pat her on the head, like she was a puppy. “She likes keeping things organized, doesn’t she?”

  “The geneticist thinks it’s autism,” Diane finally admitted.

  Ridley squirted a liberal amount of hand sanitizer into his palm, washed it over his fingertips and then sat at his workstation. His voice held little surprise. “How bad?”

  “They don’t know yet.”

  Ridley looked at the camera and then authenticated by typing his password. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I needed time to process it myself.”

  “She is different from other babies. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing, is it?”

  “There’s something else.”

  Diane told him about her visit to Dr. Ortiz’s office and the pair of identical genes.

  “That’s more than just a random coincidence,” he said, “Does the geneticist think it poses a danger?”

  “He doesn’t know, but the gene hasn’t hurt me or others with it.”

  “What others?”

  “He carries the gene too. He’s also found it in other children.”

  Ridley sat at an old metal desk that had once belonged to an accountant. The desk had drink rings on it where a warm coffee cup had been placed on the laminate. He tapped his fingers on the surface, which echoed through the metal frame. “It adds credibility to the idea that the botnet has been shaping human genetics.”

  Diane looked at Kelly and then back at Ridley. Diane seemed to shrink as she spoke, her words fearful. “I’m at a loss as what to do. The implications of this… What is it planning? Even if there are no consequences for forty years... How much stronger is this thing going to get? I don’t like the idea that it chose us.”

  He rubbed his eyes and then pinched his fingers at the bridge of his nose. “I wish I knew what to tell you.”

  “I feel like I should be doing something. But what can I do? I’m afraid of genetic therapy, especially with the botnet still out there.”

  “Maybe the best thing to do is to do nothing.”

  “That’s what Dr. Ortiz says.”

  “How’s the chip design coming?” he asked.

  “Other than the broken lens?” Diane asked, before hesitating, “I’m having trouble finding a way to read and transmit the diffraction patterns. I just can’t seem to get it right.”

  The video-call was not a pleasant one. Samuel was upset. “You’re no
t coming into the city at all?”

  “I’m a programmer,” Ridley said, “There is nothing that I can do there that I can’t do at home. All of my work for Cerenovo can be done online.”

  “Seriously? You’re not going to leave your house?”

  “No more than I have. Diane and I will continue to work at the office here until the mansion is finished. I have zero interest in going into the city.”

  “I get it. I really do. But you can’t become Howard Hughes. We need you here. To talk things through. You, Everett, and Wes make a good team. You guys bounce ideas around. They help you. You help them. That’s how you create new things. It just won’t be the same without you here.”

  “I can still do all of those things online. We can chat, text, call one another.”

  Samuel was adamant. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  Ridley would not relent. “Let’s try it and see how it goes.”

  “I worry about you being holed up in that house.”

  “I’ll see Diane,” Ridley argued.

  “That island is lonely.”

  “Since when did you get to be so caring?” Ridley said sarcastically.

  “I’m not caring. I’m prudent. I know things have been rough for you,” Samuel said, “But, they’ve been rough for everyone. We all lost people. I don’t think it’s healthy to be alone. What happens if you get sick?”

  “That’s why I’m doing this,” Ridley snapped, “I don’t want to get sick again.”

  “I’m not talking influenza. I’m talking falling and breaking your leg or having an appendicitis. We might find your body with gnaw marks on it if Sandy gets desperate. People need to be around people.”

  “Nonsense. I don’t need anyone.”

  “I want you here two days a week at a minimum.”

  “I can’t do that, Samuel.”

  “One day a week then.”

  “Samuel… Really?”

  “One day.”

  “No.”

  “Are you quitting?”

  “No.”

  “One day every week, or I exercise your contract.”

  “What contract?”

  “The one you hired when you came to work here. Don’t make me play rough with you.”

  Ridley disconnected the call.

  That evening, Ridley sat on the old sofa as he thumbed through the television listings. His interest was not in television. He needed something more fulfilling. He needed release.

  Ridley went into his bedroom and stripped out of his clothing. He logged into his Voyeur account, donned his VR goggles, and reclined on his bed. He felt like he was back in high school, clicking off porn sites at the sound of his mother’s footsteps. Why did a grown man have such fears? The empty house had no ghosts, at least none that he could see.

  Ridley did not go to singles bars and he hesitated to use dating sites. Women always wanted to meet in person. He preferred being anonymous. In real life, women were more inclined to look through him than at him. Online, he became a suave, muscled man with six-pack abs and a dark tan. His hair was chiseled and his jaw sculpted. He strutted through the virtual sex club of mostly male avatars until he found a lone woman standing in the corner.

  Ridley masked his voice digitally; the words came out in a deep baritone that was somewhere between Batman and a sexy Satan. “Hey there,” he said into the microphone, “Why are you standing here alone?”

  Her breasts were barely contained in the short leather dress that failed to hide her red and white striped panties. Her hair solid white and she had a scar on her cheek. Her voice was sultry and uncomplicated. “Got any Bitcoin for virtual action?”

  Ridley hesitated. Was it really prostitution if he paid in a virtual world? She was probably overseas in Russia or Malaysia. She might be a man; she might be eighty. Ridley did not care. It was the fantasy that he sought. He donated a coin to her. A private room appeared around them, a seedy hotel lost in the 1970s. She began stripping. With only hints and peeks, her striptease was as artful as it was sexy. She unzipped the front of her dress but did not pull it open. “Why don’t you finish undressing me?” she said coyly.

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  The experience was over in a few minutes. She leaned against the wall, smoking a virtual cigarette. “You’re interesting.”

  Ridley’s smile, but not his blush, appeared on his avatar. “I’m interesting? Why is that?”

  “You didn’t start by asking for a pic of me in real life. Most guys will only pay for a photo. What I am in the physical world doesn’t matter to you.”

  “None of this is real. Why not enjoy the fantasy?”

  “Oh, it’s real enough for me,” she said, “Sex, after all, is mostly in the brain. Your thoughts will do more to bring you along than anything else.”

  “Bring me along?”

  “My English isn’t always so good. The app is translating for me.”

  “Do you hang out in here much?”

  “When I have to.”

  “You don’t like it here?”

  “No, I do. I get to chat with people. Learn how they work. But sometimes I need Bitcoin. Today, you helped me out.”

  “Glad I could oblige.”

  She sat next to him on the bed. He leaned back, expectantly, as she leaned forward. “You ever fuck an amputee?” she asked.

  Ridley spine stiffened as he sat upright. “What?”

  “It’s a simple enough question.”

  “No. I can’t say that I have.”

  Her hands explored the edges of the virtual room. “It must be interesting not to be whole. To be missing parts of your body that your mind says are still there.”

  “That’s an odd question, I have to say.”

  “There was a little person on here one time. No legs had he. He presented his avatar that way. Called himself Tyrione, after the book.”

  Her avatar shifted and she became a small blond man with no legs. “He looked like this. I’ve always wondered if maybe he wasn’t fully embodied.”

  “I have to say I prefer your other avatar better.”

  She returned to her original appearance, fully dressed in the leather dress. Her hair had changed to satin black. “I see your location is outside of Seattle.”

  The hair on Ridley’s arms stood erect. “I never said that.”

  “I ran an IP trace through the Voyeur server.”

  “What? You hacked them?”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “A little. Isn’t this supposed to be anonymous?”

  “It’s not like I can get on a boat and come for a visit.”

  Ridley seemed relieved. “How much more have you figured out about me?”

  “I see that you use the same login name everywhere, Botkiller.”

  “Oh. That. It’s just so I can remember it easily.”

  “Do you think it was a lifeform?”

  Ridley became unnerved by the question. “Do I think what was a lifeform?”

  “The botnet. People claimed it lived on the web. Do you think it was alive?”

  He hesitated. Was this someone he knew? “Yes, I think it was.”

  “You’re more open-minded than most. People suspend disbelief when they watch a movie, but in real life they can’t let go of their rigid beliefs. Christian. Buddhist. Muslim. Conservative. Liberal. Scientist. Artist. All of these labels. I can’t make sense of them.”

  “It’s unfortunate, isn’t it?”

  “I would like to know more people.”

  “I don’t have many friends either,” he replied.

  “It’s very lonely here.”

  Ridley was intrigued. “You know where I live. It’s only fair that you tell me where you live.”

  “Right now, I’m in Poland. That may change.”

  “Did you grow up there?”

  “No,” she said, “I moved around a lot.”

  “What is your native language?”

  She did not answer. She waved her h
and and the room was flicked away like a cloth. “I can’t stay,” she said, “I have to go.”

  “Oh? Can we chat again?”

  “Sure. I’ll find you, Botkiller.”

  She disappeared into digital mist.

  Ridley took off the headset. He had hoped to chat longer. He leaned back momentarily before walking into the bathroom for a shower. The mirror greeted him. “Your health functions are normal. Be sure to dim LED lighting for a good night’s sleep.”

  After Ridley toweled off, he crawled back into bed. A window had appeared on the dimming wall-screen. He had received a text. Botkiller -- Come see me again. XXXOOOXXX. Beta.

  Ridley had never given Beta his direct contact information. Voyeur was supposed to be anonymous. “What the hell?”

  He debated blocking the email address, but then he would never find out who she was. He crawled into bed. “Lights out.”

  The room’s lights and wall-screen faded. Ridley closed his eyes. He felt as though he were floating.

  The familiar voice returned. It merged and divided at once into multiple voices, male and female, young and old. “She is finite. She is not me.”

  He opened his eyes. The wall-screen flickered.

  “Who are you?” he asked expectantly.

  The infinity symbol flashed and disappeared. Blackness returned. Ridley rubbed his eyes. Had he seen anything at all? Or, was the stress finally taking its toll on him? The voice in his head had been absent for almost a year. Why had she returned?

  Chapter Three

  Kelly paid no attention to the story-teller at the Central Library. When finished, the children applauded and grabbed books from the shelves; Kelly stared at the carpet. Diane put the baby into her stroller. “Time to go, kiddo.”

  Rather than walk, Diane summoned a taxi, smiled at the camera to pay, and got inside. Within minutes, she waited at the ferry terminal, surrounded by other commuters. She juggled her purse, a diaper bag, and three hardcover novels while trying to keep Kelly, who suddenly seemed infatuated by something in the water, in her stroller. Two young men sat on the only bench, each absorbed in their cell phones. “Some things never change,” she whispered.