Dead City

by Sean Platt

  He didn’t wait for Ian to weigh in before continuing.

  “I actually like Alice Frank. The press sets us up as adversaries. She’s ‘trying to catch Hemisphere and Archibald Burgess doing something wrong’ and we’re ‘soldiering on and trying to keep saving the world despite the accusations.’ But who is the good guy or gal there, and who is the bad one?”

  “Maybe it’s just a difference of opinion.”

  Burgess stabbed a finger at Ian. They were ten feet apart, and there Ian was, still waiting for an offer to sit.

  “Exactly. That’s exactly what it is. She’s doing her job, and that’s watching to make sure no abuses are taken. I admire her for it. I’ve read much of her stuff. But even so, some of her facts and many of her more subtle implications are simply incorrect, and it would be irresponsible — not just within this company, but to the world we report to as well — to simply let those inaccuracies go. So it’s not a war. It’s not them against us. This is the natural balance.” He walked a few steps closer to the window over the lawn, now seeing the farthest vans. “This is the way of life, of evolution.”

  Burgess turned to Ian, waiting for something Ian couldn’t imagine. A response, or perhaps applause.

  Instead, Ian found himself asking his most impertinent question.

  “Why did you have people drag me in here?”

  “Drag?”

  “I was on my way to the office. Getting out of my car and crossing the parking lot. They came up and took me by the arms.”

  “They were asked to retrieve and escort you here.”

  “They could have asked. I dropped my phone on the ground when one of them grabbed me.”

  “Were you hurt? Did they hurt you?”

  Ian watched Burgess’s eyes, suddenly seeing exactly what game was being played. Of course he knew what had happened. There were no mistakes. There was a reason Ian had always idolized Burgess: his unflinching boldness in going after what he wanted, letting nothing stand in his way. Men like Burgess didn’t ask permission, or apologize. The company’s first stem cell research had taken place in Singapore, where it was encouraged rather than restricted. When he’d opened a subsidiary to use research in America that the States wouldn’t have allowed him to gather, he hadn’t asked. He’d looked everyone in the eye and dared someone to stop him. Maybe in time, someone would have. But Rip Daddy happened first.

  “Of course not,” Ian said.

  “Was your phone damaged?”

  “No.”

  Burgess’s face didn’t change, but its question did. It said, If you’re fine and nothing was broken, what are you whining about?

  Burgess turned, paced to his desk, then leaned against it, his posture like a college kid.

  “Do you believe in evolution, Ian?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Don’t answer so quickly. We all learned about it in school. Men from apes. Or rather, men are apes. Only a fool or a fundamentalist would deny it. But I’m not asking about evolution’s past. I’m asking about its present.”

  “Its present?”

  “I began Hemisphere with two premises. The first was that evolution, in modern society, had been stopped in its tracks, and that we as a people have been artificially kept alive by medicine. The second was that without that crutch, we might have advanced again — but that with the crutch, we’d never change. Never become what nature intends us to be.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Everything we’ve made has improved through selective pressures. Capitalism only allows the strong to survive — in this case, strong ideas, strong companies. When media went DIY — independent music, books, movies, and more, at prices that were affordable by anyone — society itself (not a handful of high-powered executives) became the selection force that made art better. The same is true of technology: Only the best were purchased; only the best advanced. Natural selection works for everything, Ian. Everything but us.”

  Burgess picked up a paperweight, twirled it, set it back down.

  “Disease and predators no longer thin the weak and unfit from the human population. It’s not only the best adapted genes that get passed on to the next generation to make humanity stronger as a species. Now, thanks to medicine, all genes get passed on. Our diseases aren’t making us stronger. Those diseases are simply being forced to adapt. If they can’t kill off our weak, the selective pressures simply need to become stronger. It’s almost as if evolution has flipped: instead of improving us, it’s improving the pressures allied against us.”

  Ian shook his head.

  “I know you’ve been talking to the press, Ian.”

  Ian felt blindsided. He’d settled into Burgess’s monologue, and now here was this pat accusation. He was unprepared. His most naked response was unfolding as Burgess watched — surely the old man’s intention.

  “It’s okay. They’re persistent, and the best, like Alice Frank, have a way of finding modes of contact they shouldn’t have, to bypass official company channels. I’d never forbid anyone from speaking what they feel is the truth. But it is important to me that if my people talk behind my back, I have a chance to correct any misperceptions they may have first.”

  “I haven’t been … behind your back … ” Ian stammered.

  “After I watched Alice’s documentary about Yosemite, I came away with a few distinct impressions. They’re why I asked Raymond to talk to you, and then for you and a few others to decide the best way to respond: overtly, through our PR channels, or subtly, by shifts in direction. We’re not perfect, Ian. None of us are, and Hemisphere certainly isn’t. But I don’t think it’s as Alice suggests. If this was about money, we’d charge for Necrophage’s base formulation instead of making it freely available. She’s pointed out before that we receive government stipends as compensation, but she doesn’t point out that those stipends are a drop in the bucket. This company, by all accounts, loses hundreds of millions of dollars each year providing the drug. Did you know that?”

  “Sure, I — ”

  “Another thing this misinformed crowd of media folks outside seems to believe is that we’re in bed with Panacea. We have partnerships, of course. Panacea’s purpose is to contain Sherman Pope, and efficient Necrophage distribution is a large part of that. But despite her allegations in that piece, this has never been a heartless company bent on power.”

  “I don’t think the world sees Hemisphere as heartless, Mr. Burgess. Quite the opposite, actually.”

  “Of course. But disruption always starts small. Evolution again. It always begins with a few individuals and a critical change. Evolution walks hand in hand with chaos. Neither can be contained. But we must try to guide and shape it. Right now, our detractors are a small group. But tell me: After you watched that piece, did you begin to wonder if the way we handle the terminally infected individuals in this country is right? Did you feel for the MP whose job involves escorting hunters who book vacations to hunt people a few degrees farther down the ladder than her?”

  “It’s the least of evils. I think people understand that.”

  “Maybe.” Burgess shrugged. “But I’m troubled by the direction of your inquiries.”

  “My … my inquiries?”

  “I don’t blame you for being curious. But perhaps you can tell me what exactly you think is the matter with our systems? I can tell you all day that this company’s purpose has always been to foster humanity’s potential — through our non-Necrophage lines as a matter of progress and through Necrophage as a matter of triage — but that means nothing if you believe something different.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Please, Ian. Don’t call me sir.”

  Burgess picked up an apple from his desk and took a large, crisp-sounding bite. Then he chewed, waiting for Ian to speak next.

  “I honestly don’t know what you mean. Alice Frank has tried to call me. But I haven’t spoken to her. I’ve hung up each time.”

  “Why?�
�

  “She should go through official channels. And she’s a troublemaker with an axe to grind.”

  “So says your sense of loyalty. But do you honestly not think she has any valid points?”

  “Well … ”

  “And the files our IT department tells me you’ve been browsing and copying. I can’t make sense of them, and I’m sure I know the research far better than you could, no offense. I’m just wondering what point you’re trying to establish. None of it is confidential, other than the fact that it came directly from our systems rather than the Internet. How do you feel it all connects, Ian?”

  “I didn’t pick any of it out! It was shoved at me!”

  Burgess’s face changed. Not to anger, but to a sense of acceptance. Now they were finally shooting straight, no bullshit.

  “Is it for August Maughan? Has he been in touch?”

  “August Maughan? No; I’ve never even met him. Why?”

  “Frankly, he’s the only person I can see finding any use for what you seem to be … well, it doesn’t matter. If you are talking, please tell him to call me. He was the best, and the conditions that caused him to leave were unfortunate. I question this thing he’s supposedly doing now, as a guru. But to each his own.”

  “I haven’t talked to him!”

  “Or to Alice Frank.”

  “No.” Ian willed himself to calm. If Burgess knew about the calls and the files, what was left to hide? It was all just a big misunderstanding.

  Except for the unseen hand he’d felt lately: one incursion telling him to copy, read, and delete, and another somehow connecting his phone to Frank’s as if making an introduction. Did Burgess know about that? Should he hide, or volunteer it? He was a company man, not a rat. Hemisphere had nothing to fink on anyway. He could come clean, but said nothing.

  “That’s good.”

  Burgess took another bite of his apple, still just staring at Ian. The way he was simply accepting all of this was flat-out emasculating, but Burgess’s sense of authority and control was palpable. Ian felt like he’d just run a race, and would be happy to get out of here unscathed.

  “Is … is that all you need from me?”

  Burgess answered obliquely. “Do you believe in this company? Do you believe our mission statement — ‘Upgrading Nature’ — is more than just hyperbole?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  Burgess nodded, seemingly satisfied. “That’s good. I respect you, Ian. Your mother’s book is my bible, and the apple—” He held up his own half-eaten fruit. “Does not fall far from the tree. There’s a reason I greenlit your speedy climb. Especially today, in this time of rapid social evolution, we need minds like yours to thrive. Survival of the fittest, am I right?”

  “Survival of the fittest,” Ian parroted.

  “As we face opposition, a firm and convicted belief in the mission at hand is the only thing that can keep us on course.”

  “Sure.”

  Burgess touched something on his desk. The door opened, and the two black-suited men appeared, as if they’d been waiting just outside.

  “Paul and Richard will take you back to HQ. I’m sorry to have occupied so much of your time.”

  Ian fought the urge to reply that the visit was an honor. He wouldn’t kneel that deeply, even though it was exactly how he felt.

  “It’s no problem,” he said instead.

  They exchanged a handshake. Then, halfway to the door, Burgess called out.

  “Ian.”

  Ian turned.

  “You’re a good man with priorities for yourself and your family firmly in order. I’m glad to hear you’re with, rather than against, us.”

  Ian managed to nod, but it wasn’t easy to swallow.

  It was hard to forget the manner in which he’d been brought here, and harder not to hear Archibald’s parting words as a threat.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  PUBLIC RELATIONS

  ALICE DIDN’T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS, spirits, ESP, life after death (other than the kind that lived next door), the Law of Attraction, or fate. But she managed to believe in intuition. That’s what had led Alice to her initial leads in her first story as a reporter. Intuition had steered her toward loose ends in the Rip Daddy outbreak, and had told her to watch closely when it morphed into Sherman Pope. Intuition told her that Hemisphere and Archibald Burgess, though they were the world’s darlings, were hiding something — not that they were playing dirty, necessarily, though that seemed possibly true as well. Intuition told Alice to keep picking at scabs when others would give up. There was no reason, not really. Just a strong and unrelenting feeling.

  Alice didn’t need intuition to think that Ian Keys was in trouble.

  But it did suggest that whatever had gone wrong, it had to do with her. With this almost-story she sensed just below the surface. To do with Necrophage and its various formulations. That feeling had itched upon receipt of the packet then bloomed when she’d spoken to Nicole about Kelly’s condition. Briefly following August Maughan’s trail had been part of that errand, and even her last attempts to get in touch with Bobby Baltimore had carried unasked questions about the drug.

  The drug.

  The text, when she’d been speaking to Ian in that strange who called whom call, had said, Ask him about BioFuse.

  And that was starting to ring a bell. Something she’d seen. Having to do with the drug.

  The text’s sender was undefined. In her history, the message seemed to have come from phone number 0804 — not enough digits to be anything beyond meaningless. But she could go into that history and see the way it had perfectly synced with her incoming call from (not outgoing call to) Ian Keys.

  Ask him about BioFuse.

  Whoever had connected Ian and Alice on the phone had sent that text. Someone who wanted them to talk, and was perhaps passing information to Alice that he or she couldn’t send directly. Someone with reason to believe that Ian would want to speak to Alice if the right conditions arose.

  Alice went for her envelope of meaningless paperwork, surely sent by the same person. On second inspection, nothing in the packet was any more helpful. And still, nothing seemed confidential. She could have printed the same pages after a quick Internet search and a visit to Hemisphere’s public relations department.

  But Intuition told Alice that despite appearances, there was something in those papers worth noticing. A message sent between the lines.

  And sure enough, this time one glossy, tri-fold brochure stood out that hadn’t before. It looked like something a drug rep might distribute to doctors, for a pill called BioFuse.

  As with everything else her Deep Throat had given her, the brochure wasn’t confidential. But when Alice visited the Hemisphere website and searched, she found that BioFuse was no longer among the offerings. They no longer sold it, unless it was being vended through channels that weren’t on the website. It wasn’t mentioned. Anywhere. At all.

  The rest of the web didn’t care much about BioFuse, either. There were a handful of search results, entirely uninteresting at first glance. It was something that used to be sold, then was ditched after the company’s focus turned to managing Sherman Pope.

  Alice opened the brochure. There were a lot of smiling people in it, mostly older. One showed a white-haired couple in the park. In the entire brochure, there were no obvious necrotics. And in PR materials, thanks to Panacea’s non-discrimination laws, companies were rarely subtle. Almost everything these days featured someone clearly necrotic. You wanted to show that your company embraced everyone, no matter how awkward the photo shoot might look.

  The oversight seemed glaring. Alice’s eye had grown so used to over-obvious (almost pandering) inclusion of necrotics, this brochure full of uninfected people seemed almost offensive — unintentionally insulting, but insulting nonetheless. Like an early printing of Little Black Sambo.

  She picked up one of the magazines on her coffee table. Flipped through. Found an ad for a Walmart. It showed a group of pe
ople, all smiling. Every box of humanity had been checked. There were men, women, tall people, short people, young and old. There was a large woman in a wheelchair up front. Every skin color under the sun. And off to one side, too far from the group but maybe the best shot the photographer had been able to get, was a half-slouched man, his arms halfway up and dangling like a mantis at the wrists. Mouth open. Facing away from the group, looking like he was trying to escape.

  Alice looked back at the BioFuse brochure. Then back to the Internet.

  She had it: The brochure seemed strange because it had been published prior to the outbreaks. Before the reintegration. It was hard to believe there had been an America before Sherman Pope, but here was evidence — of that and more.

  She opened the brochure. BioFuse appeared to be one of Hemisphere’s early patents, meant for the treatment of Alzheimer’s disease.

  Alice picked up her phone. She tried Ian’s mobile again and got voicemail, as expected. But really, what would Ian know even if she could get him on the line? BioFuse was a dead end. They didn’t even make it anymore — and by the looks of the exclusionist brochure, hadn’t for years. According to what her source had dropped in Alice’s lap and what she’d discovered on her own, Ian had been with Hemisphere for five years and executive vice president for just over one. He wouldn’t know anything about this old drug.

  She tried his home number anyway. That had borne fruit a time or two, proving one level deeper that the source who’d given her the number actually knew a thing or two. She also had a few email addresses, though she hadn’t tried them yet.

  But this time, the home number just rang and rang.

  Alice sat motionless on the couch, knowing all she could do was pass the time. If Ian Keys had been abducted, she could wait for the story to hit the mainstream news. If he’d merely been called aside, which seemed more likely, she could either wait for him to return her call (unlikely) or wait to try again. She’d put out feelers to find August Maughan, but she’d have to wait and see if anyone underground could find a lead. She’d left a few messages for Bobby, so she had to wait for him, too.