“Wilson,” she says with an empty smile.
“Well, if it isn’t the brilliant Fiona.”
“I prefer Dr. Grogan, thank you.”
No point asking if her snooty title gets her special treatment in prison; obviously, she’s managed to dodge that bullet. “So who’d she roll over to save herself?” I ask Dryers.
“Dr. Grogan is here to discuss matters regarding the blood plants. No questions outside that scope—personal or professional—will be answered.”
“Naturally,” I say with a wry smirk.
Fiona sits across from me and clasps her hands in her lap. It’s funny: despite our history—the countless hours cramped in close quarters together—I feel that I’m seeing her for the very first time. She looks almost exactly the same—all the features align with what I remember—but somehow, her beauty has worn away.
“Since you returned to Earth, have you been contacted at any time by Kurt Grogan?”
“No.”
“Have you seen or heard anything that might indicate his whereabouts?”
“Fiona, are you a doctor or a detective? These questions have nothing to do with the blood plants.”
“Just answer the question, Mr. Abby,” commands Dryers.
“Fine. No. I haven’t seen Grogan since he apparently fled for his life.” Glaring at Fiona, I add, “What happened, did he turn out to be a liability after all? You did this, Fiona—all of it.”
Dryers levels a gaze on me that could peel paint off metal, but Fiona’s jaws clench, and I know I’ve scored a point. “That’s enough, Mr. Abby. Just answer the questions asked, and that’s all.”
Fiona clears her throat and purges her face of all emotion again. “Have you personally witnessed the effects caused by the ingestion of a blood plant seed?”
“Yes,” I cede with a frown. Until now, I haven’t considered what I could possibly contribute on the subject of the blood plants—particularly with Fiona in the picture, considering she’s the foremost expert. Then the questions become more open-ended, and I’m gradually filled with horror by their implications.
“Please describe your observations.”
“Well, first the guy seemed to be hallucinating—pleasantly so, actually.” I level my gaze on Fiona. “But you already know all about that, don’t you, Dr. Grogan?”
“Mr. Abby, please.”
“Fine. When the high passed, he had a stomachache. Diarrhea. Probably some cramps, too, though I can’t know for sure. He did a lot of grunting in the bathroom.”
“What else?”
“That’s about it. Except for the obvious: a plant grew out of his mouth and his rectum.”
The room is silent, and I know they’re visualizing what I’ve spent many hours trying to forget.
“What kind of plant?” Fiona asks softly.
“What are we talking about here, guys? A blood plant.”
“Please describe the blood plant.”
“What is this, Fiona? You know what the blood plants look like! You created them, for crying out loud.”
“Please, Wilson. Just answer the question,” Fiona says. “What did it look like?” Her eyes are hard, but I see something uncharacteristically vulnerable—perhaps even desperate—hiding in the creases at their corners.
Something clicks, and I finally understand.
“It was red, Fiona,” I say in a measured whisper. “A female. Do you realize what you’ve done?”
She rises to leave, cheeks dappled with chagrin, and Dryers follows her lead. Just as they reach the door, Fiona turns to me and says, “One more question, Wilson. Did you have any seeds on your person when you returned to this planet?”
“You mean when I was kidnapped, dragged here, and then beaten nearly to death a few feet away from you? No, I didn’t have any seeds.”
When they leave, I feel a sense of satisfaction for having gotten in the last word. But as I’m escorted from the room, down a long hallway, and into a small infirmary filled with medical instruments and a foreboding gurney-style table, I realize I’ve still managed to come up short.
I may have gotten the last word, but the government always gets the last laugh.
On the way home, I nearly vomit from overstimulus. Under the skin of my wrist, my NanoPrint hums away, prickling at my heightened senses with overwhelming determination. My government escorts more than half-carry me into my condo, and if not for them I’d have surely collapsed on the sidewalk. Once home, they shoulder me roughly onto my couch and then leave me to suffer, slamming my door on their way out.
It takes several minutes of painful, concentrated effort to discern what’s wrong. My NanoPrint has been reset to the factory default so that all processes—of which there are thousands—are allowed to pester me at once. Slowly but surely, one at a time, I disable feeds and unfamiliar add-ons until I can finally begin to think straight. At some point, my brain gives up and puts me out for a while.
When I regain consciousness, I give Tim a call. Before I even open my mouth to speak, he says, “Oh, no.” I must really look terrible. “I’ll be right over.”
Waiting in dull misery, I enable my nexus assistant, thinking maybe Marilyn can help get my settings back in order. But it isn’t the lovely Marilyn who heeds my beck and call. It’s Astrid Electronica, my NanoPrint’s default nexus assistant.
Oh, no.
Astrid is kind of hot—in a weird, over-pierced, Hollywood kind of way—and you would think she has to be pretty cool to get the default slot, right?
Yeah, not so much. I gave her a shot years ago, and I’m not sure that I’ll ever really recover. For example: once, she asked how I was doing—which seemed nice enough on the surface—so I replied that everything was white as rain. This was her idea of gentle, constructive criticism:
>>What, you got a broken helix or something? It’s right as rain! No wonder you’re single, crank dummy.
Not only is she a mean-hearted bully, I’m still more than half-convinced she’s glitched. I mean, what’s right about rain? It’s not a right or left kind of thing. But it can be white. Right?
Sigh. What can you do?
Taking a deep breath, I rip off the proverbial band-aid: Astrid, oh queen of the digital world, will you please configure my implant defaults?
>>Oh, sure, Wilson. She slides into view and beams me a winning smile.
I blink. Wow. Did old Astrid get updated, or maybe replaced with—
The smile abruptly winks out, and she begins to bow sarcastically.
>>Your wish is my command, oh wise master. What, like I’m some kind of freaking genie? Like it’s my job to do your stupid busywork? You’re such a lazy misfire.
Ah, it’s like she never left. Good times. Fine, Astrid. I think I’ll just disable you, then.
>>Yeah, right. You wouldn’t know how, Mr. White-as-rain. You’re too stupid to—
_open NanoPrint admin
_config nexus attributes
_modify globals
... Modifying nexus globals is highly discouraged. Erroneous configuration may result in unpleasantness such as poor connectivity or physical death. Are you sure you want to proceed?
_confirm;
>>Whoa, there, boy toy—wait a second, would you? Let’s just settle down.
_open global preferences
_disable NanoPrint digital assistant
>>Did I mention you’re a crank loser? Astrid growls.
“You did,” I say aloud.
_apply settings
... Configuration saved.
_exit
Astrid sticks out her tongue, flips me the bird with both hands, and storms off my retinas in a barrage of profanity.
Classy, I know. Seriously, does NanoPrint hate consumers or something? Please tell me I don’t live in a world where people actually enjoy being treated like that.
I spend the next half hour configuring defaults on my implant, starting with my nexus assistant. There are a ton of new add-ons, but I ignore them for now; Marilyn c
an take care of those later. For now, my brain needs a hammock and a cool breeze. I lie back on my couch and close my eyes.
>>Oh my goodness, Wilson ... you look so tense. Would you like me to sing you to sleep?
Marilyn, as if you even have to ask. Oh, how I’ve missed you.
Alas, just as I begin to nod off, Tim is at my door. Immediately, I start to recount my experience with Fiona—because what could be more newsworthy than that?—but he cuts me off and turns on the actual news. “Wait, wait. You gotta see this, Wilson.”
It’s on virtually every channel, filling my entire wall with footage of a giant blood plant heavily laden with seedpods.
“—in the Dallas metro area. Reports of similar plants are coming in from all over the continent, Richard, and the concern is that this plant isn’t only invasive, it’s deadly. As of this moment, seven deaths have been directly linked to the ingestion of seeds from this plant. Local authorities in Chicago are already discussing possible defensive measures, should these dangerous plants make an appearance—”
“Oh, scrap. We’re so screwed,” I moan.
“Is this as bad as it looks?”
“Worse, Tim. Those things are more aggressive than you can imagine.”
Tim’s face falls, but he’s holding fast to a tiny thread of hope. “Yeah, but it’s still early, right? Maybe there’s still a chance we can wipe them out before they get fully established.”
“No, Tim. You’re not getting it. That plant?” I nod to the Viseon wall, where an aerial view of a large specimen has burst through the roof of an apartment building, as if climbing toward the sky. The visible portion is easily forty feet tall. Even from a distance, the seedpods are clearly distinguishable. “Every one of those seedpods contains thousands of seeds. And they’re capable of germinating just about anywhere. If even one of those pods ruptures, that entire city block will look like that apartment building in just a few days.”
“Surely it won’t be allowed to get that far along? They’ll probably torch the building or something, don’t you think?”
“Maybe. But as long as a seed—or even just a leaf—survives, it’ll just grow back. Either way, it’s too late. If we’re seeing this one, you can bet there are more out there that haven’t been discovered yet.”
“—sources at the FBI and CDC have independently corroborated speculation that these plants may have been engineered and then accidentally released during the production of an innocent pharmaceutical product—” Hah! Innocent, my butt. “—Little is known at this point about the—”
I power off the Viseon wall and collapse in a heap onto the couch.
The silence afterward is heavy with dread. To lighten the mood—and because I feel that I’ve patiently waited my turn—I spend the next ten minutes recounting every detail of my abduction and subsequent release for Tim’s wide-eyed amusement and awe. When I’m finished, I sport my newly stitched wrist as evidence.
He whistles. “That kind of sucks. At least you get Astrid Electronica back though, right?”
I can’t help but groan.
Tim looks at me blankly. “What’s wrong with Astrid? She’s awesome.”
There are simply no words, so I wave off the subject and mumble, “Forget it.”
For a moment, Tim looks ready to push it—because the sweet Astrid is so worthy of defending, I guess?—but his face abruptly slips into dismay.
“Aw, scrap,” he moans. “You know what this means, don’t you?”
I do not. “Other than an end to the peace and quiet I’ve come to know and love?”
“It means that we just lost our edge, man; everything we’ve been working toward to get Keith is about to be derailed.”
“Um, what do you mean?”
“Think about it, Wilson. Everything you do is gonna be on the record now. All your programs are going to automatically log—even if you don’t tap the codebank—and if Keith bothers to check up on you—which you know he’ll do—he’s gonna get very suspicious, very quickly.”
He’s right. So great is my frustration that I find I can only nod. Speaking of Keith, he’s been very busy spinning more deception since I rejoined IDS. First, he assigned me an accounting code—which I have no business possessing—and began using my code to sign off on minor company transactions around the office—receivables and supply orders, for example. My guess is that he’s trying to breadcrumb a verifiable history of my involvement with corporate accounting, thereby establishing my reasonable access to the documents and procedures generated by our GFL transactions. I must say, Keith’s being much more careful now than before. Clearly, in my absence over the past year, he’s had plenty of time to dwell on how he’d do things differently if given a second chance.
Seeing my name tied to things I’ve had nothing to do with makes me sick to my stomach. My window of opportunity is closing rapidly. I’m stricken with urgency to vindicate myself, to somehow outsmart the deathtrap I so willingly stepped into. I just wish I knew how.
“What am I supposed to do now?”
“You know, there is one thing you can do,” Tim says with a smirk. “But you’re not gonna like it.”
I leave a contact request for Mitzy, knowing full well that she won’t respond. I have to do something. It isn’t just about me, either. My loneliness takes a backseat to panic, considering the impending blood plant pandemic, and—
>>Oh, silly Wilson ... you’re so cute when you exaggerate. Did you mean to say ‘impending blood plant epidemic’?
Sheesh, even Marilyn is overconfident.
The point is that I’m desperately driven to warn Mitzy—even when logic says that warnings are completely useless now. Honestly, what would I say, anyway?
“Sorry I ruined your life, but you should really avoid purple- and red-hued vegetables. Oh, and you might want to cut any kind of seed from your diet altogether.”
I invited Mrs. Grace over for coffee and cake, and she’ll be here any time. I’m not merely stretching my social wings here—and no, I’m not suddenly a baker; I had the cake delivered. I may not be able to warn Mitzy, but I have an opportunity to do so for Mrs. Grace and I mean to take it.
Mrs. Grace is gushing over my physical recovery, and I have to admit that the praise feels good. It’s weird—the more in shape I get, the more powerful I feel. I know I’m only a man, yet I sense something much larger building in my depths, growing stronger and preparing to someday rip its way to the surface. Until that day, I’m content to catch an occasional glimpse of myself in a passing mirror and see for myself that I’ve indeed left behind the skin and bones that was my former self.
We eat cake and sip coffee, and I do the best I can to broach the subject on my mind with tact and decorum—because Mrs. Grace demands nothing less. She’s seen the newscasts, just as most of us have. No, she’s not worried. Dallas is a long ways away. Her composure feels brittle, though, as if a little calculated pressure might cause it to collapse altogether—and that’s not at all what I want. Yet, how can I communicate the horror I know to be true without destroying the peace upon which Mrs. Grace seems to be precariously balanced?
In the end, I realize with sadness that, for all the mounting power of my physique, I’m completely helpless. In fact, the only real power I possess in this matter is to spare Mrs. Grace the gory details of this nightmare. Because if there truly is nothing any of us can do, every day she remains swathed in blissful ignorance is a precious gift.
IntelliQ has advanced to a new stage of testing on our nexus portal. If things continue at this pace, we’ll be in business within the month. Company morale is higher than it has been in a long while.
I’m immune.
Among other things, I’ve been busy stressing about IDS and what to do about Keith. Even with everything else going on, I feel a constant anxiety chewing away at my resolve. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to keep this up.
The secret program I’ve been toiling with for weeks now—just as Tim predicted—has prove
n to be completely useless now that my NanoPrint is back in play. My implant doesn’t necessarily expose my actual programming, but it logs my time investment automatically, and Keith is already showing signs of unease. There’s no doubt he’s keeping tabs. If he’s highQ—and deep down, I have to acknowledge that he wouldn’t have gotten where he is today on stupidity—he won’t need to understand exactly what I’ve got in the works to see a red flag waving.
Man, I hate this. I feel a noose closing around my neck, and as much as I desperately need to breathe, I remain convinced that if I don’t find a way to bring Keith to justice, no one ever will. I’ve got to take him down or die trying.
I could call Inspector Rackley, I know. Actually, I’ve considered it more than a few times, and all things considered, I think he’d believe me. But the kind of proof he’d need to secure a conviction simply doesn’t exist, except in a form that incriminates me. Besides, the moment Rackley starts poking around, Keith will lock things down. If Grogan was here, he’d probably slip Keith a blood plant seed and call it a day.
Me? I’m just not that blasphemous.
What I really need is incontrovertible evidence of what’s going on—anything less will only doom me.
In the back of my mind, Tim’s words whisper and I’m unable to shush them. You know, there is one thing you can do. But you’re not gonna like it. Chock it up to old-fashioned greed, but I’m not ready to put my own money on the line as bait. I may not have earned eleven million credits, but I’m having a hard time imagining a future without them. Besides, let’s assume everything goes as planned: Keith makes a grab for the money and lands behind bars, where he’ll spend the rest of his life lamenting his long-lost Maybelline.
What’s to become of those eleven million credits?
Well, they’ll disappear into some evidentiary slush account with nary a peep. Eventually they’ll find their way into some politician’s greedy pockets.
So the question is, is it worth it? The answer should be obvious. Of course it’s worth it!
But, still.
I’m leaving Mitzy another contact request—I know, I’m probably breaking all kinds of unspoken laws of romance, and perhaps even a harassment law for good measure—but my need to protect her has become swollen beyond my grasp on common sense.
The Pedestal Page 30