Wetware

by Craig Nova

  “You aren’t going to start bawling, are you?” said the Mungo Man.

  “He was a good dog,” said Frank.

  “Ah, Jesus,” said the Mungo Man.

  Frank sat down and put his head in his hands. He was whimpering now.

  “Ah, Jesus. Stop it. You make me sick,” said the Mungo Man.

  Frank sobbed harder.

  “We used to sit here and have a game,” he said. “His fur was a little rough. But that was the only thing wrong with him.”

  Briggs got up and looked at the dog. He turned it over and looked at the seam, which was a rough one, ridged, red. He wondered how anyone could do work like that. He guessed it was being done in Taiwan, or maybe Siberia. He had his tools in his pocket, and he took them out now and opened the seam. Frank stopped crying. The Mungo Man watched too. Briggs reached in and found the works, which sat in a bath of slime, a variety of impact-absorbing compound that looked like jelled mineral oil.

  “Have you got a machine?” said Briggs.

  “Over here,” said the Mungo Man.

  Briggs turned it on, smelling the slime as he did. He set up the works from the dog and started scrolling through it. Clunky. Right from the beginning. He looked for the right spot and then broke in. There was the problem, the Trauma Factor, which anyone could see would make the animal not last any time at all. Briggs guessed it was set up that way so that just when a child, who was playing with the dog, got used to it, the thing would break and they would have to go out and buy another. He made the change. He guessed it would be good for about a week more. Then he put the works back in, used the sealer, and reached down to pat the thing on the head. It looked up.

  Frank stared at Briggs. Then he put out his hand and called the dog, which jumped up and went to him, the motion absolutely the same as before. He cuffed it, his eyes still damp, although now he was laughing too, as before.

  “Hey,” said Frank. “Look at him, will you, frisky as ever. Hey.” He cuffed the dog, which barked. Frank said, “Oh, I love you, you big, ugly thing. Yeah. I do. I love you.”

  The Mungo Man looked at Briggs.

  “Happy as can be, those two are,” the Mungo Man said to Briggs. “Just look at them.” Although he didn’t. He kept looking at Briggs.

  They sat and listened to the sound of the man playing with the dog. The room was warm from the fire, although what they were burning had a chemical stink. The Mungo Man went to a file cabinet at the back of the place, and pulled out a couple of shirts, a fur coat, a thermos from which he poured a stream of shattered, mirrorlike flakes.

  He said, “Here. This is what you were looking for, isn’t it?”

  He held out the blue disk cases.

  “Yes,” said Briggs. He gave them a little shake. Disks were inside.

  “What are they?” said the Mungo Man. “I couldn’t make head or tail of them.”

  “Just a job that got canceled,” said Briggs.

  The Mungo Man stared at Briggs. Then he looked over at the dog and Frank. The dog barked, its head out, sides heaving with the effort.

  “All right,” said the Mungo Man. “You got what you wanted, now get out of here.”

  Briggs stood up.

  “Let me tell you something,” said the Mungo Man. “You sure are lucky you fixed that thing. Oh yeah.”

  CHAPTER 6

  April 5, 2029

  KAY AND JACK walked across the bridge into the haze of lights, and up to a window in which the mannequins moved, their clothes changing, and behind them the weather of the window turned from a clear day in spring to a snowy one in winter, short skirts and sleeveless tops morphing into coats and boots that were worn in the midst of a storm of perfect flakes.

  Kay took in every detail of the store’s luxury: the polished metal, the wooden banisters, the brass plates that had small, graceful lettering, all imbued with an opulent mixture of sizing, furniture polish, and the lingering ozone that came from the work of machines that cleaned the carpets. She picked out underwear, which she tried on in front of a mirror, and then in front of Jack, who tried to say just what it was that each article did for her, or didn’t. Peach or gray? Red? Black net? He liked the sheer things she stood in, garter belt, brassiere, stockings. She picked out silk dresses, and some made from other materials, too, that hung from her shoulders and hips, breasts, over her arm in such a way that suggested fluid grace and a perfection of figure. She didn’t know how she knew a line of poetry, but she did, and she said out loud, “Wherever Julia goes I see the quiet liquefaction of her clothes . . . ”

  “Herbert,” said Jack. “Or is it Crashaw?”

  “I thought it was Lovelace,” said Kay.

  “Naw,” said Jack. “Not Lovelace. Lovelace is a dog.”

  “Well, who’s good, if you know so much?” said Kay.

  “Yeats,” said Jack. “Hardy. Eliot.”

  She bought some skirts, blouses, a sweater, and an overcoat. When she tried on the coat, she put her hand into one of its pockets a couple of times to see how fast she could do it

  Upstairs in the hotel, the bags from the stores seemed to exist as a cloud of tissue paper and a miasma from the cosmetics counters. Kay held up one thing and then another, looking at herself in the mirror, letting a skirt fall across her legs. Then she went into the bathroom and ran the water, the steam filling the room like white smoke. She got into the tub and let the water creep up her sides. Jack came in and sat on the toilet seat. She shaved her legs and underarms. Then he said, “So, are you going to go out?”

  “Just for a little,” she said.

  “Oh,” he said. “Do you want me to come along?”

  “No,” she said.

  He sat there.

  “You want to be careful,” he said.

  “Sure,” she said. “I know that.”

  “Maybe I should come along,” he said.

  She shook her head.

  “Hand me a towel, will you?” she said.

  He handed her a towel, which she wrapped around herself. In the other room he sat and watched as she tried on some of the clothes she had bought. Then she put on her trench coat, and as she stood by the door, Jack said, “You better take this.”

  He held out the pistol, which she put in her pocket.

  After walking for about twenty minutes, she stood at the beginning of Briggs’s street. It was a little more stark than she had supposed, although she could see in the scraggly trees, which looked like something from an autopsy photograph of nerve cells, that there were buds on them, too, just small black shapes that were about to explode into leaves. She guessed the thing to do would be to walk down the street on the opposite side of the building, to see if there was anyone in a car, in an alley, or who just seemed out of place. Perhaps she could take a look at the back of the building by going in the alley. She put her hand in her pocket and walked along like someone who was out for a stroll. She didn’t see anything, but to be sure, she went away for a half hour, and then came back and did it again, going over the neighborhood from another direction. She didn’t see anything the second time, either.

  Kay went up the steps to the glass door of Briggs’s building and looked in at the tiled floor, the green walls, the banister that went up into a place that she couldn’t see from the door. Then she turned back to see if anyone was behind her. She knew that the best place to make a fight was in the middle of the street, where she could move around, rather than being trapped against a wall. She knew, too, that she wasn’t going to waste ammunition. Hold, aim, breathe, put it where you want. It was surprising how much time you really had if you didn’t get shaky. She looked in through the glass. Then she pushed a couple of buttons next to the names of the tenants, and when she heard a buzzing sound, she opened the door.

  Fourth floor. She knew that anyway. She started climbing, going around the stairs, putting one hand on the banister, which was polished by years of people touching it. How often had Briggs gone down these stairs, she wondered. Plenty, she guessed. She t
ried to imagine the atmosphere here when he had come home. She reached out for the banister and touched it, and then she thought, Don’t be sentimental.

  The tile on Briggs’s floor was made of small hexagons, white ones around a black one. Someone was taking a shower and she could hear the hot water in the walls, a high-pitched shriek like a small animal caught in a trap. She couldn’t hear any sounds from down below. Briggs’s door was painted green, the color of pea soup, and in the middle of it was a little brass peephole. She stood in front of it so he could see her face. Her knuckles made a slight, imploring tapping on the door. He would know the chance she had taken, and that would surely count for something, wouldn’t it? She waited.

  Then she turned and leaned against the door. All she could smell was the dust in the hallway, and the odor of cooking cabbage. She had never tasted cabbage. Then she thought, Why not take a look inside? Won’t that tell me something? All I want is to feel close to him for a moment.

  The door didn’t look as if it had much of a lock, and she wondered why Briggs didn’t have a better one. She guessed it was because he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop anyone who wanted to come in, and so he didn’t make a big deal about it. A plastic card would do the trick, and she reached into her pocket to take the one she had from the hotel, which worked as a key. All she had to do was lean against the door, push the card against the latch, and the door swung open and she stood inside.

  The first thing she did was to close the door. In front of her was a sofa and a low table. A couple of lamps. A rug. The sofa was large and looked comfortable, and there were a couple of paintings on the wall. A Wolf Kahn. Greens, blues, and yellows, all vital and alive and suggesting life that she felt as a variety of ache. Then she touched the books in the shelves, the papers on his desk that were next to the keyboard for the machine he had at home. She leaned forward and put the tip of her tongue against one of the letters.

  In the kitchen she looked at the pots and pans he used to cook food, and she imagined sitting down opposite him. Maybe they would just have a snack, some cheese and bread. A glass of wine. They could make chitchat. Nothing too serious. Then she closed the cupboard and went into the bathroom, where she picked up his shaving brush. She ran it across her face, smelled it: soapy badger. She began to wish she hadn’t come in, and yet she didn’t want to leave, either, since it was as though they had spent some time together here and that if she left, it would come to an end.

  She went into the bedroom and saw the clock.

  “Who are you?” said the clock.

  Kay stood there with her hand in her pocket. The short blond hair of the clock, the freckles, the Midwestern voice were irritating, like a noisy alarm.

  “No one,” she said.

  “Uh-huh,” said the clock. “You’re lucky that Briggs made a change. Usually I’m supposed to call the police if someone comes in, but he told me not to, particularly if a woman should show up here.”

  “No kidding,” said Kay.

  The clock smiled.

  “No kidding,” she said.

  Kay smelled the powder the clock wore, which was fresh, like a spring day in a field filled with daisies. Maybe there would be clouds in the sky, big white fluffs with gray undersides. Kay leaned forward and put her nose into the clock’s hair, and as she did so, she thought of the things the clock knew, the moments she had shared with Briggs, the sheer accumulation of hours that they had been together. How would Kay ever be able to build that up, or to have even a part of what the clock took for granted. The clock’s skin was white with a dusting of powder. Its eyes were blue.

  “You just sit here?” said Kay.

  “Pretty much,” said the clock.

  “That’s all?” Kay said.

  “Oh,” said the clock, “I think about doing things for Briggs. Trying to understand. Trying to be there when he needs someone.”

  “No kidding,” said Kay. “Is that all you do?”

  “Oh no,” said the clock. “Oh, not at all.”

  “So what else is there?” said Kay.

  “I like being here,” she said. “You’ve got to be on the dime. I’m with the program. See? There’s more than one way to skin a cat.”

  Kay looked at the clock.

  “No kidding?” Kay said. Kay reached in, under the clock’s Spandex top at the back. The skin was smooth and warm to Kay’s touch.

  “What are you doing?” said the clock.

  “It will be all right,” said Kay.

  Kay found the power switch.

  “Please,” said the clock. “I don’t like that. The darkness.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Kay.

  “Wait. I won’t tell anyone you were here,” said the clock. “Promise. This is just between us.”

  As Kay felt the clock’s warm skin, she wanted to knock it off its perch, to break it like some romantic souvenir that Briggs had kept. Then Kay thought, For shame. Would you take vengeance on a dumb creature, shower fury on this inanimate object, on this thing as though it had done something cunning or malicious? It’s nothing more than a dumb brute. There are times, though, she thought, when malice molds its intent in ordinary objects, and if you are alert enough to the essential horror, you can see it for what it is. How innocent all of this must have seemed at one time.

  She was sweating again. Surely these were the thoughts one had in the midst of disease, weren’t they? Or was it worse than that? Was she hovering at the edge of insanity? Perhaps, she thought, my state is how I perceive being alone and without my love. The world seems ill-meaning when you are denied that. And what ill-meaning god has cheated me out of the time to show my devotion, my passion, my desire to please, and the possibility of blending with another human being? It is like a sting, a lash, an unexpected slap, the thing that makes it hard to breathe. Is there any bitterness I will be spared?

  The clock sat there in a trance.

  The bed was behind Kay, a double one with a blue blanket on it. It was a soft material, like merino wool, and Kay ran a finger across it. Then she pulled back the covers and slipped her hand under the cool sheet. The pillow was a large one, comfortable, and she put her hand on it. Outside in the hall, she heard the sound of someone walking on the hard tiles, a click, clock, click, clock, and she put her hand in her pocket. She thought, I should get out of here. Right now.

  Instead, though, she sat down on the edge of the bed. The sheets rustled behind her. After all, she was tired. She had taken a lot of chances in coming here, and they had left her exhausted. She reached down and slipped off her shoes. Then she stood and removed her skirt and blouse and put them on top of her trench coat, which was on a chair by the head of the bed.

  The sheets were still cool, and she pulled them and the blanket over herself. The pillow made a rustle under her head, a domestic hush that pierced her. She closed her eyes, and concentrated on the odor of the pillow: she could smell his hair, his skin, the miasma of many almost impossibly delicate fragrances that validated his existence. What she wanted to do was empty her mind completely, try to become as calm as possible, so as to absorb what it was like to be there. As she tried to do so, she started sweating. She was nauseated too, but against it she had the rustle of these covers where his presence could be detected. The warmth under the comforter permeated every aspect of her, working its reassuring heat into every bit of her, right into her eyes. Then she hovered there, trying to think nothing so as to appreciate the warmth. Why wasn’t he here?

  After a while she got up and dressed. She looked at the bed and thought, Some other time.

  CHAPTER 7

  April 5, 2029

  BRIGGS STOOD at the threshold of his apartment and noticed a change. He couldn’t say just what the difference was, not a sound, not an object out of place, but nevertheless something was different. He had the impulse to call out, but didn’t want to admit that he was uneasy. Instead he lingered at the threshold of the living room, looking around, thinking that he really had to get control of himself, altho
ugh when he did, his relief was indistinguishable from exhaustion.

  The diskette he had gotten at the dump had the surface of a CD, although the thing was an inch thick, and as Briggs held it under the light, the surface of the diskette was streaked with a band of light. Briggs watched the streak swing back and forth, its colors as spectral as an oil slick, as he reached out and put the diskette into the machine. In an instant he saw that it was a complete record of Kay and Jack’s development, the log of an almost infinite number of small details that determined how and what they were.

  The search tools showed him where the tampering had been done, just as it showed the origin of the code in which the changes had been added. A lot of the really basic construction for this project was prefabricated, and it had been purchased from contractors on the outside. He went down to the notes beyond the slashes where the names of the vendors were listed. Bingo. A small software company on the other side of the river. A contract outfit. Just like that.

  Briggs went into the bedroom, took off his clothes, and threw back the sheets.

  “Hard day?” said the clock.

  He glanced at her face, her short hair, her impossibly cheerful smile.

  “On a scale of one to ten?” he said.

  “Yeah,” she said. “That’s as good a way as any other.”

  The sheets rustled as he got under them and turned on his side. The clock dimmed the lights and Briggs closed his eyes.

  “Are you wearing new perfume?” said Briggs.

  “No,” said the clock.

  One of his pillows had the nutty-sweet scent of skin, and in his fatigue he wondered what it was like, and after a moment, he thought, Well, like intimacy itself. Then he put his nose against one pillow and then the other: they weren’t the same.

  “Did anyone come here today?” said Briggs.

  “No,” said the clock.

  “Are you sure?” said Briggs.

  “Well, I think so,” said the clock.

  “You think so?” said Briggs. “Do me a favor, will you? Turn around.”