The Curiosity

by Stephen Kiernan

  She had never spoken to me with such heat before. “I beg your—”

  “It also shows what a wimp I have been about getting you taken care of. But the answer isn’t Carthage. That guy won’t let go of a nickel till he’s squeezed six cents out of it. The answer is the world.” She nodded to herself. “Oh yes, everybody wants to be Judge Rice’s friend.”

  “I’m not certain I understand.”

  “You want a few creature comforts? They’re on their way. You want some friends? I will get you thousands.”

  When we returned to the project, the protesters were ready. They had shaped themselves into a triangle, their captain at the apex. Like a preacher, he would call and they responded in kind. To my ears the sounds collided chaotically, but Dr. Philo made sense of them.

  “Crazier every day,” she said. “This way, Judge Rice.”

  She led me unnoticed along the building’s flank, to the rear. There the feeling was less of laboratory or office and more of industry, with a place for unloading and storing goods, parking for cars, and no crowds. Dr. Philo swept a card through a device on the wall and I could hear the doors unlock.

  We had barely stepped inside when a wave of exhaustion swept over me. I slumped against the wall but Dr. Philo supported me instantly. She straightened under my arm till I stood upright, then guided me forward. Despite the grocery bag in her free hand, I felt her strength firmly against me. She whispered reassurances, to keep walking, we were almost there, and the like. I barely heard her words, instead discerning the more important element, the tone of concern and affection. As we hobbled past the guard, it dawned upon me that this was a person I could genuinely trust. And so my hand, which had hung in the air past her arm, came down to rest upon her shoulder, and drew her near.

  Dr. Philo’s only reaction was to stop speaking. The silence was not awkward, however. The rather, as we waited for the elevator, it felt as comfortable as the manner in which we held each other.

  The doors opened and there stood Dr. Gerber. His face lit at the sight of us, though Dr. Philo pulled away from me. I steadied my legs as though at sea.

  “Oh-ho. Welcome back, intrepid travelers,” he cried. “But I must give you a warning. Carthage is on the warpath. Something Billings did or didn’t do, and the boss was peacocking around shouting about it while I was trying to work. Anyway that was my cue to go for an evening stroll, and I encourage you two to keep a low profile, too.”

  “Thanks.”

  We moved past him, Dr. Philo pressing the button to send us upward. Before the doors touched, Dr. Gerber caught one with his hand. “Remember, kids: don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  “Give it a rest, Gerber,” Dr. Philo said. Then the doors came together.

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “He’s teasing me,” she replied. “It’s complicated.”

  Upstairs I found the energy to reach the chamber on my own powers. On the way in I noticed a counter of some kind, numbers in bright red: 21:07:41. There was one by the chamber, one in the control room, and now that I recollected, one in the glass foyer downstairs.

  “What is that device counting?”

  “That’s the number of days since you were reanimated,” she said.

  “Is it significant in some way?”

  Dr. Philo pressed a combination of buttons to open the chamber door. “Not that anyone has told me.”

  I went straight to the bed, but remembered my manners and leaned on it rather than lying prone immediately, as I was inclined to do. First I thanked Dr. Philo for the supermarket trip, which I said felt like a trial expedition to the here and now. “Also I am grateful for your speed at catching me each time that my energy collapses. I appreciate the trusting manner in which we walk together.”

  She pursed her lips at that, not speaking, and again I wondered if I had erred in some way. Dr. Philo shook her head as though a fly were buzzing nearby, then dug into the grocery bag and placed my orange on the table.

  “I’ll check back after Hurricane Carthage has passed,” she said, punching the security numbers again. “Have a good rest.”

  And she was gone. The room immediately felt mechanical and gray. There was naught else for me to do but hoist my weary bones upright, cross the room, and pick up that singular orange. It was brighter colored than any I’d seen in my prior time. The smell was wonderfully familiar, calling forth associations that ranged from that childhood Christmas gift to Joan’s recipe for fruited ham. The peel was thicker, so my thumb could dig it open and away easily. The meat within was unmarred. I spread the wedges—and mystery of mysteries, there were no seeds. How could that be possible? How could a fruit persist in this world without means of reproduction?

  I pulled one section free. My mouth watered at the prospect; this was a perfect orange, the Platonic ideal. I paused, aware of how desire can be its own reward, and recalled what eating one felt like, how refreshing, quenching, and tart. I brought that wedge up to my nose. The scent was fine, milder than I recalled but my desire not one whit reduced.

  Oh, I felt foolish for succumbing to such sensuality about a fruit, however fine a specimen, and bit the wedge neatly in half.

  There was almost no flavor. It was watery, yes, and there was a slight tang. But the rich wash of sensation I remembered was somehow missing. I took another bite, and the taste was the same. Bland, to be honest. Dull. I ate more, each section thumbing away effortlessly as one would hope, but the flesh tasted far less, well, less orange.

  Half of the way through, I stopped. Were my memories that much stronger than the truth? Or did oranges in the here and now somehow contain less flavor than their visually imperfect ancestors? I found that notion hard to fathom. The farming expertise that cultivated this fruit to its ideal appearance could not have neglected the most important element, could it? Not possible, not in a race so competent and advanced. The explanation I settled on was far simpler: somehow in its century of being inanimate, my tongue had lost sensitivity.

  Yes, that must be the reason. I set the fruit aside, concluding that the fault lay not in the orange but in myself. It must have been me.

  CHAPTER 19

  Lovely Evening

  (Daniel Dixon)

  The deadline is my friend. Sure, there’s pressure, and compromises when you’re running out of time. But take it from yours truly, if it wasn’t for deadlines, nothing important would ever get done.

  That particular night my editor had been bearing down like a bull on the loose in Pamplona, pressing me to write an update for Intrepid’s Web site. I’d stalled him as long as I could. Normally I can bang out a piece like that half asleep: anecdotal lead, hooking quote, news peg by sentence four, stakes in the fifth paragraph, three sources, inverted pyramid structure, and a nice kicker, easy as drinking a beer.

  But with all the back-and-forth with Carthage, including his tantrum about Billings that day, I’d been as distracted as a teenage water boy at cheerleading practice. Not to mention tracking down all those people who’d claimed to be the good judge’s descendants, a first-rate goose chase that scored a colossal zilch. What kind of desperate dingbat pretends to be related to someone just for the possible fame? Plus I’d been interviewing bigwigs for my book: pray tell, sir and ma’am, what the Lazarus Project means to our disintegrating society and all that hot air. Hate to say it, but the day job was coming in at something like fourth place. Honestly, though, what magazine would fire a reporter hooked into an exclusive as rich and rare as this one?

  There were also the cosmic questions, that’s what I called them. Such as what is life, now that it persists outside of the rules we’ve understood for all human time? Nothing would ever bring my parents back, of course. But if Carthage had outsmarted freezing to death, what other tricks might he accomplish in the years ahead? If he beat ice, could he someday beat fire?

  By habit I checked the digita
l counter of old Frank’s reawakened days. Fourteen hours and forty-one minutes into day twenty-one. Ho-hum. The guy snored in his glass cabin like a millionaire on vacation. The real squeeze was 9 A.M., when my story had to be filed.

  On the plus side, the regular clock read 1:15 A.M., which meant the imminent arrival of the delectable Dr. Kate. Life was about to improve. Hey, and maybe she could be the lead. I’d interviewed her earlier that day, forty-five minutes in her company as pleasant as a morning in June, about introducing the judge to the modern world. She described their trip to a supermarket, how our contemporary life can be overwhelming compared with a century ago.

  I dug in my satchel for that notebook, flipped to her comments, and bent back to slapping those keys. But new distractions always arrive just in time, and right then Gerber came bopping in, looking as airy as a beach ball.

  “The mad scientist returns,” I called. “What misdeeds have you been up to now?”

  Gerber barely registered my presence. “I’ve been strolling in the lovely evening,” he said, almost singsong, then beelined for his desk. He sat, sniffed around for a moment, picked up his headphones. “Lovely evening, lovely evening.”

  I was sitting halfway across the bullpen but I swear the man smelled of smoke. This place . . . oh, brother. What a menagerie.

  “Strolling in the lovely evening.” Gerber clapped the headphones into place and nudged the mouse on his desk. His computer screen refreshed instantly, to a page filled with Chinese characters.

  CHAPTER 20

  Day Twenty-two

  (Kate Philo)

  No one told me anything. If I had known what the reanimation clocks meant, what they were counting, I doubt I would have wasted Judge Rice’s time wandering through the fruit section of a Safeway. Months later, when people reread Dixon’s article about the supermarket trip, when our outing appeared to squander the judge’s precious limited time, they would say it showed one of two things. Either the whole project was a hoax, or I had no feelings whatsoever. Either way, I was evil.

  The truth is, I was not one hundred percent awake. I’d planned to work my usual shift, 1:30 A.M. till midmorning, by which time the rest of the control room chairs would be occupied. Only then would I fold my arms on my desk to nap. By noon I’d be refreshed enough for a productive workday, home for dinner, back after midnight. It sounds worse than it was; since moving to Boston after we found the judge, I hadn’t had time to make one friend. There was nowhere else I wanted to be.

  Judge Rice began fidgeting at about 4 A.M., though, waking fully before five. Dixon had gone home by then, to my relief. So I opened the chamber door. Judge Rice followed me to the control room, pulling up a chair for another session at the computer. This time Gerber was intent upon his screen, so without a contradictory voice I showed the judge great buildings from around the world, hilarious jugglers, clips from Olympic games. Also, because he insisted, video after video about man walking on the moon. Judge Rice had a way of taking things in, making this little noise—“hm”—as though he were in court, hearing evidence. It may have been a defense mechanism, too, I think, to keep him from being overwhelmed. However bizarre our world might seem to him, each new discovery brought the same “hm.” Duly noted. Proceed.

  Still, it was clear his brain worked everything over. He’d slide the chair back for a pause. He’d walk a lap or two around the control room, scratching his puffy whiskers, then ask me please to continue.

  I began to feel like his teacher. Oh, it wasn’t the rich experience of a classroom, so many minds, such different energies from day to day. But the opportunity to instruct this unique man in the ways of today was the highest privilege.

  When the early tech crew began to arrive, Judge Rice stood, bowed his thanks, returned to bed. I found myself watching him, a slow shuffle as the security door hissed closed. His weariness reminded me of my sister Chloe’s toddler daughters, who play all day, then run out of gas in seconds, often needing to be carried up to bed.

  When he began unbuttoning his shirt, at once I returned to my desk. I still had charts to complete, systems to back up. It was a long morning, but I wrapped up by ten-thirty. I was just settling down when Carthage wandered into the control room, Borden on his heels.

  Or should I say, appeared to wander. Because their casualness was so visibly false, all the technicians made sure to look busy. My all-nighter meant I slumped unapologetically at my desk, but otherwise even Gerber sat up straight, adjusting his headphones as an executive might straighten his tie.

  Borden sidled around the room’s perimeter, pausing to scan the latest Perv du Jour before continuing behind the desks. His mannerisms—tugging at the point of his beard, darting a tongue over his lips—made him look a bit like a windup toy. Carthage bent to an unused computer to check his e-mail, as if it had changed since he’d left his office minutes before. After an interval whose duration I’m certain he’d calculated, he swaggered over to tap Gerber on the shoulder.

  Lifting one ear of the headphones, Gerber spoke like a butler: “Yeeeessss?”

  “All vitals good this morning?”

  Gerber sniffed. “Everything’s normal, other than odd sleeping hours last night. Spent a good three hours in the bullpen here, learning about the world online. But the good judge is out cold now.”

  “Did anyone reattach monitors when Subject One returned to bed?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Which means”—Carthage harrumphed—“for all you know he could be dead.”

  “If he is,” Gerber said, wearing a penitent expression, “I think that would be bad.” He cackled, covering the exposed ear again.

  By then Borden had reached the reanimation clock. I watched him. The next few seconds turned the minutes, then hours, then Judge Rice began day twenty-two.

  “Dr. Philo?” Carthage called.

  I sat upright. “Me?”

  “Go awaken Subject One.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Wake him up,” Borden said. “Chop chop.”

  “Your instructions have always been to let him—”

  “Wake him now, Doctor,” Carthage said. “Right now.”

  “Fine.” I slid my feet back into their clogs, rose, made for the security door.

  “If something is amiss, do not touch Subject One or alter anything,” Borden said.

  I paused while punching in the key code. “Why would anything be amiss?”

  Of course they didn’t answer. I expected that. What I hadn’t counted on, though, was the feeling of intrusion when I entered the chamber. The walls and floors were still institutional gray, cool lighting spilling in from the control room. But the chamber also contained Judge Rice’s smell, the earthy leather scent I’d noticed before. His clothes were draped on a desk chair wheeled up to the bedside. This was a man’s space, and I an uninvited woman. When had I last stood beside a bed containing a sleeping man?

  The body was still, blankets rumpled enough that it was impossible to tell if Judge Rice was breathing. I inched forward, pausing to check the long, control room window. Carthage and Borden stood close, staring in. I felt as though the judge and I were in a fishbowl. Or a jail. I noticed Billings had arrived, too, hovering between my desk and Gerber’s. Only then did my suspicions rise. What were they all up to out there?

  Carthage motioned with his hands, urging me along. I reached Judge Rice’s bed. He slept on his stomach wearing no shirt, the sheets low, revealing his bare shoulders. I checked the window again. Carthage put his hands on his hips in impatience.

  I placed my palm on Jeremiah’s back, below the left shoulder blade, just above his heart. The skin was smooth, warm.

  “Judge Rice?” I shook him a little, my hand involuntarily turning the gesture into a caress. Could anyone see? I pulled back to shake him again. “Judge Rice?”

  He squinted one eye while opening the other.
“Yes? Good morning. What is it?”

  “Dr. Philo?” Carthage boomed through the audio feed. “That’s all for now.”

  Outside the glass Carthage was beaming. Borden jumped up and down as though someone had scored a touchdown. Billings had a hand over his mouth, while Gerber took his headphones off with a puzzled expression.

  “Is everything all right?” Judge Rice asked.

  I realized my hand was still on his skin. “Everything’s fine,” I said, standing straight. “Perfectly fine. Excuse me a moment, would you please?”

  “Of course. Should I rise and dress?”

  “Pardon the interruption.” I tucked a sheet in. “You go on back to sleep.”

  By the time I reached the control room, Gerber had his hands on his hips, standing two feet from Carthage. “I am saying explain yourself, right now.”

  “We did it,” Borden said, hopping from foot to foot. “We actually did it.”

  “Did what?”

  “It’s not in your field,” Carthage said, putting down the phone he’d used for the chamber audio. He was trying to make it appear like he wasn’t backing down from Gerber. “Dr. Borden and I completed an experiment today. It succeeded. That’s all.”

  Gerber sniffed. “You two have tests going on that you haven’t shared with me?”

  “Or me?” I said.

  “It’s on a need-to-know basis,” Carthage said.

  “And you didn’t need,” Borden added.

  Gerber scratched his head, which I took as my opening. “If I didn’t need to know, why did you need me to go in there?”

  Carthage spoke down his nose. “None of your business.”

  “You were necessary in case Subject One was near death,” Billings said. “He would respond to you before anyone else.”

  Gerber froze, fingers in his curls. “What are you talking about?”

  Carthage glared at Billings, who continued anyway. “Twenty-one days, Kate. That is how long we expected our esteemed barrister to live, postreanimation.”