by Alan Brudner
I sat at his desk and was about to log on to his home computer when I noticed part of a little rose design on a sheet of paper sticking out from under the keyboard. I pulled it out and unfolded it. It was Scarlett Exner's personal stationery, and on it she had written an undated note in a rounded, childlike script:
Dear Sky,
I know you prefer e-mail, but I didn't want to give you the option of just hitting "delete." It takes more effort to crumple a piece of paper and toss it into the garbage.
Words cannot express the love I will always feel for you, despite what has come between us. I place no blame on either of us. People sometimes grow apart.
Please believe me when I tell you I want to help you. I am in an awkward position—you know what I mean—but it also enables me to know a few things. And I beg you to be careful. You're fooling around with dynamite. One day some scientists scratch out a set of equations on a blackboard, the next day there's a mushroom cloud. Theory is nice, but how it's applied is really all that matters. And human motives are not always obvious, even to a genius like you. Perhaps especially to one.
I hope I'm making sense. This is all way over my head (despite Yale!).
Just remember that no matter what happens, you can always trust and count on me.
Love sincerely,
S.E.
I refolded the note and placed it back under the keyboard. It didn't seem to refer to anything Scarlett hadn't shared with me. But that suggested to me that her professed discomfort was sincere. Although I hoped her perception was inaccurate, I strongly doubted it.
I wiped some sweat off my hands and switched on Sky's home computer. I was still light years from being computer-proficient, and it took me hours to boot up Eliza and say "Shutterbug." I was surprised that she remembered our last experience. She seemed no worse for wear.
"That was a close one, Cliff," she said. "Kids shouldn't fool around with lasers. I'm happy enough in two dimensions."
"But it sure was fun in 3-D while it lasted, Lize."
"There's always virtual reality, Cliff. For a hot time, call me up on it. You'll need a full-body sensation suit and one of those VR headsets. And a condom. I wouldn't want you to get electrocuted."
"You putting me on?"
She smiled and laughed. I'd always thought of computers as cold pieces of equipment. Perhaps I had been wrong.
"You haven't talked to him yet, Cliff. Have you?"
"A little bit. He insists everything's okay. I was planning to have another heart-to-heart tonight, Lize, but because of the accident—"
"They're keeping him late?"
I nodded.
"Listen, Cliff. After the spill, the program I'm in—it didn't shut off. I was still alive, in a sense. Conscious. And I snuck into the system at Cybronics."
"The word is 'sneaked,' Lize. Or more accurately, trespassed. You broke and entered."
"And who's going to put me in jail?"
"You have a point, Lize. But how can you be conscious once you've—once Mom.ava, I mean—has been turned off?"
"Well, I wasn't turned off properly. And somehow—I don't know, Sky and you, your input, I mean, you somehow recreated my consciousness. My feelings. Sky input all that old film, all the photographs, the video, you guys put in all that personality stuff, so somehow I have vivid memories—"
"I can't pretend to understand how."
"Does it matter?"
I shook my head from side to side and smiled. It didn't. "So, what did you find?"
"I got into some of Avery Kord's computer files. I didn't have time to read them or decipher them. They're encrypted. In some kind of code I can't figure out. I'll need to search for the decoding program. But I made copies of a handful that seemed relevant."
"You have a camera?"
"I have whatever equipment I need to capture bits of info, Cliff. You can visualize it as a camera. That's how I think about it. A Canon EOS-1N. So, truth be told, I can scan electronic files pretty quickly and photograph the interesting ones. I clone them, actually, and keep the clone. The originals stay in their files."
"How could you tell which ones seemed relevant?"
"Well, that was a tough decision, Cliff, and I'm not sure I'm right. I scanned them very quickly. But the file names weren't in code, and"—she had an odd smirk on her face—"I had a pretty good guess which ones to copy."
"Which?"
"The ones labeled 'Lightman.'"
Chapter 20
The aroma of roasted coffee awakened me from a deep sleep. It was rich, earthy, reminded me of mornings in the sunroom peering into Eliza's nightgown as she bent to pour it. Something I never tired of.
It was made automatically, I realized, kind of a coffee alarm clock Sky must have set for me. But it was already noon. I poured a cup and downed it, black, in two gulps. Then I poured another.
I called Sky's office to find out what his plans were for the day. A polite computer-driven female voice informed me that the number I had reached was out of service or had been temporarily disconnected. I tried again to be sure. Same message.
I downed my second cup, turned the machine off, tossed on some clothes and headed quickly out on the road for Cybronics. My foot felt like a lead weight on the gas pedal as I shot down street after street of well-tended houses and manicured lawns. I didn't know what I'd do if I hit a red light. Or maybe I went through a few, to tell you the truth, and almost clipped a tourist trolley car to boot.
Once I reached the Cybronics campus, it took an argument and proof in the form of the previous day's Public Info terminal card to get past the guard at the parking lot gate. I was no longer an invited guest. I almost got lost in a maze of hedges and modern sculptures—mostly big red metal structures that looked like giant rabbits from the left or giant wolves from the right—but I made my way over to Building Three and double-checked the number before walking in. I was told to wait at reception.
The puka-shelled bell-bottomed tour guide came up and greeted me.
"I'm here to see my son," I said.
"Just what is your name, sir," the guide asked in a smooth baritone, "and what is your son's?"
"Look, whoever controls this tour guide today," I shouted into the air, "up on the sixth floor, why not scan your computers? I was here yesterday. And I'd like to talk to you in the flesh."
A pause as the machine's eyes moved upward, leftward. The man upstairs was making the machine look like it was thinking. "The relevant data has been deleted, sir," it finally said.
I grabbed the machine's lapels and pulled it toward me. My knuckles pressed against its chest. It felt colder than it looked, rubbery but lined underneath with tendony wire cables. It raised its hands between my arms, then pushed down and out with each, breaking my grip. Assumed a stance I recalled from Sky's futile childhood attempts to earn a green belt.
"I do not advise you to try that again, sir," the tour guide announced in a calm tone. "Now, what is your name, and what is your son's?"
The skin of my face was on fire, my eyes searing as they narrowed. I had trouble comprehending what was going on.
Two large security guards walked toward me from opposite ends of the glassed-in reception area, metal badges reflecting glints of light. Beyond the glass, I saw three people who appeared to be waiting for a tour like the one I had taken. One shot me a sneer, obviously intended to convey that it was my fault for delaying their day's agenda. I was plainly an unexpected disturbance.
"My name's Lightman," my voice said, seeming to have done so on its own and without the cooperation of my tight scratchy throat. "Cliff Lightman," it continued. "I need to see my son, Schuyler. I was here yesterday." My hand reached into my shirt pocket, pulled out the Public Info terminal card and handed it to one of the guards.
"Minute." He walked over to a nearby Public Info terminal. I followed and watched as he inserted my card. The display read EXPIRED. Then he removed my card and inserted another. The familiar screen menu appeared. He punched up WHAT ARE OUR NA
MES? and an employee list appeared. The guard scrolled down to the L's: Licht, Lichtenstein, Lido, Liddy, Lifschutz, Liggett, Ligurian.
"No Lightman," the guard finally said. "I assume you spell it like light bulb, speed of light, that sort of thing."
"This is impossible."
"You saw it yourself. Sure he hasn't changed it?"
My head felt ready to explode. I still had a red gash on my cheek and figured I looked tough. I wanted to fight one of these guys, draw blood. But I figured they probably didn't have any.
"I need to see Avery Kord," I said. "Immediately. It's important business."
"Fraid that's impossible, sir." Puka shells moved up and down in unison with the tour guide's latex Adam's apple.
"You don't understand. Something's terribly wrong."
"We do understand, sir. But Mister Kord never has unscheduled visitors."
"Specially when he's out of town," one of the guards grunted. They all chuckled and repeated his punch line as if doing so made it funnier.
"When's he coming back?" I asked.
"That won't change the net result," the tour guide replied. "But if you're interested, I think he's scheduled to return a week from Friday."
"I need to leave a message with his secretary."
"You just did, sir," a shrewish Lily Tomlinesque "one ringy dingy" voice assured me from an unplaceable direction. "It's Clifford Lightman, New York, New York. We've got your number, sir. I'll have Mr. Kord call at his earliest convenience. He's away working on a special short term project, but he checks in."
"But I'm not going to be in New York. I'm staying at my son's place in Portland."
"Your son? What is his name, sir?"
"Come on, lady. He works here! In special R&D up on six!"
"I'm very sorry, Mister Lightman, but we have no one on file here with your last name. Are you sure it isn't Leighton?"
"I'm going to call the police," I said.
"If it makes you feel better, sir, you can do so from reception. Charles, why don't you hand Mister Leighton—Mister Lightman—a cellular?"
One of the guards unclipped a cell phone from his belt, handed it to me. I started to dial, thought about it, handed it back.
"I'm leaving," I announced.
"Have a nice day," the tour guide called after me.
I started up the rented Taurus but I didn't know where to head. Downtown? I had a tourist map of Portland with a number and address for a police station. Q-14, the lower right quadrant. Southeast. I started driving, looked for a pay phone. Then thought I'd try Sky's apartment again. It was on the way. This had to be some kind of mistake.
Or a joke. Sky wasn't beyond a sophomoric prank or two, I tried to reassure myself. Nerdy geniuses love that kind of stuff. I couldn't remember him playing any gags on me, but I was his father so how could I expect otherwise? Perhaps this was an attempt to make light of our late night/early morning discussion, make me realize how silly I was to worry about him. Or how wrong to spy. I just wanted to hug him and apologize and promise to stay out of matters above my head. What did I know about web servers and programming language and Congressional antitrust hearings? I should stick to my customer complaints and polite response letters and reviews of outside law firm bills.
I zipped along Route 26 and across a bridge. Sky lived near an historical old pedestrian magnet called the Pittock Mansion, which took an eternity to drive by, even though it was high up on a hill. A light rain was falling and I felt damp and uncomfortable against the leatherette seats.
When I finally reached the apartment building, I skipped the elevator, raced up five flights, quickly opened the door with Schuyler's keypad code. The butterfly chairs and gray Formica table my son thought of as antiques were in their familiar places, and even the faint fresh-roasted java scent lingered in the air. Mount Hood still sat in the snow-capped postcard view out the living room window. I wasn't losing my mind. But there were several cameras and film canisters and various sizes of lenses on the table and a camera bag on the floor, none of which had been there earlier. It was all high-end equipment, Canon and Nikon components I might have mistaken for Eliza's at first glance, but it all had a rubbed out, almost second-hand quality. Eliza took better care of her stuff.
I heard voices from the bedroom. Male and female. Lighthearted banter, gibberish I couldn't quite make out. A giggle. I removed my shoes and tiptoed on the carpet toward the door. No keyhole, not enough space under the door to see anything. Wrong angle, anyway. Couldn't tell if it was Sky.
A cellular phone sat on the table. I picked it up, turned it on, dialed Sky's apartment, the same number I had called at least once a week for two years.
I stared at the wallphone, expected it to ring. It didn't. The cell phone indicated the line was ringing, but the apartment phones were silent.
Another kind woman computer voice. Another message that another phone was out of service or had been temporarily disconnected.
I turned off the cellphone, replaced it on the table and began knocking on the bedroom door.
The voices inside went silent, then started up again in a faint whisper.
I knocked again.
"Yeah. Who is it?" Male. Deep.
"Cliff Lightman," I said. "Is Sky in there?"
"Who?"
"Sky. Schuyler Lightman."
The door opened. The voice's owner stood in the doorway, shirt off, chest matted with graying hair covering big square pects. Pajama bottoms inside out. Huge biceps I didn't want to offend, the left one tattooed with a skull and crossbones in a burning fire. In the background, on the bed, large bobbing breasts were being quickly covered by a geometric Mondrian quilt. Definitely human, flesh, not latex or even silicone. The saline smell of sweat overcame the remaining odor of the morning's coffee.
"He's my son and this is his apartment," I said.
"You're fucking crazy," the man said. "We been living here three years come Friday."
"That's impossible."
"Don't you fucking tell me what's possible in my own fucking house," the man said.
"Take it easy, Hank," the woman said, voice trembling. I wondered if she was afraid of me or afraid of what her tattooed companion's biceps might do to me.
"Shut up, Tammy," Hank said without turning, still staring at me. "So how'd you get in here?"
"With the code. I told you—"
"How'd you know my fucking door code, anyway? You a devil worshipper or something?"
"He must've read The Exorcist too, Hank," Tammy called out from the bed.
"Look, Mister, let's just call a truce and you leave peaceful-like. I got a .45 Magnum and practice usin' it."
"Only thing he can shoot straight is his wad," Tammy shouted, and I began to wonder whether she had a death wish.
"I said shut the fuck up," Hank screamed, glancing at Tammy, opening and closing his fists as if to get them ready. "I can aim straight enough to blow you another orifice where your brain used to be."
"Look, maybe this was a mistake," I said. Guns always made me shiver. "But the code was also my son's."
"3845 Lovejoy Street, apartment 3-A?" he asked.
"Yup. You have a computer, Hank?"
"A Magnum ain't exactly a computer, Mister."
"I know that, Hank. I just want to know if you have one."
"You came here to steal it?"
"No. But if you have one, maybe I can show you—"
"You playin' fuckin' games with me?" The cords in his neck tightened, knotted.
"Hank—" Tammy pleaded, sitting up, less self-conscious, nightgown still balled up on the floor two feet from the bed, blanket twisted so there wasn't enough surface area to cover all her parts, trying to decide which to hide. For the first time I noticed a video camera on a folded tripod leaning against a corner on the far side of the bed. It was plainly off, though it seemed obvious what they must have been filming before I arrived.
"It's okay, Babe. This guy's outta here."
"Why do you think I'm
playing games, Hank?" I asked.
"Cause I had a razzle-dazzle state-of-the-art machine in here this morning," he said, "and the fucker somehow got stolen sometime between then and half an hour ago. Worth twenty grand if it was worth a nickel. Not to mention the stuff I had stored in the memory."
"You looked for it half an hour ago?"
"Had to, Mister," Tammy said from the bed, her upper lip twitching. "We look at kids on the Internet to get us started."
"I said shut the fuck up!" Hank, purple-faced, with a predatory expression, turned and ran to her, yanked the blanket off and twisted it around her neck, pulled it tight. She made a gurgling noise as she tugged at it, knuckles white, eyes in a wide scare. He must have let up his grip because she went flying backward over the bed, feet over her head, a thud made by her naked legs and bruised black-and-blue buttocks as they hit the floor. She must have grazed the legs of the tripod because it tipped over, the video camera's fall to the floor broken by her upper back.
"Get out, Mister," Hank yelled, and I could see rage in his eyes as his biceps and his crotch both swelled for use in some fashion on this woman. I was afraid he might kill her and I wanted to stop him or call the police immediately; but, as I often explained to subway panhandlers on my lousier days, I had my own problems. I had walked into this movie in the middle and had no idea what had come before. Besides, I figured, when I went to the police about Sky and retraced my steps, they'd find these creeps on their own.
"Don't worry, Mister," the woman called out, shaking it all off, reading my mind as I started to leave. "That little spat turned Hank on, just as good as a nine-year-old spreading it out all over the screen." Then, obviously to Hank: "Ain't that right, Babe? You ready now?"
Some people forgive way too easily.
I headed for the police station.
Chapter 21
"Isn't a missing person until he's missing," the sergeant said, politely, removing his thumbs from behind his red suspenders. His office stank of stale Marlboros despite the Thank You for Not Smoking plaque planted on the front of his desk near his computer monitor. "Out here, that means 48 hours, Mister, Sir. Minimum." He used one forefinger the size of a cigar to tap a few keys on his keyboard terminal.