Interface

by Neal Stephenson; J. Frederick George

  It was not exactly a warm and affectionate reunion. Mel pulled a small black box from the pocket of his black raincoat. He walked toward Mary Catherine, clicked a switch on the box, and then waved it up and down the length of her body, watching an LED graph built into its top. Every time the box passed near her midsection, the graph shot up to its peak level. Mel moved the little box in a narrowing orbit until he finally zeroed in on her belt pack.

  The pack was still unzipped. Mel pulled it open and peered into it, his bald head grazing Mary Catherine’s bosom. He nudged the stun gun out of the way and carefully pulled her keychain out. The world’s largest keychain had shed a couple of pounds since Mary Catherine had left the hospital, but it was still formidable. Mel turned it over in his hand, waving his little black box over it, and finally zeroed in on the miniature Swiss Army knife.

  He disconnected it from the keychain and held it right up next to his black box. The LED graph was pinned at its highest reading.

  Then he walked across the road, wound up, and flung the knife off into the middle of a cornfield. He made one more pass over Mary Catherine’s body with the little black box. This time the LED meter did not flicker.

  “Okay,” Mel finally said. He spoke quietly, but it was easy to hear him in the absolute silence of predawn. “You’re clean.”

  “What—”

  “If anyone asks, tell them that, uh—” Mel closed his eyes and stood motionless for a few seconds, “you noticed a dog that had broken away and gotten its collar tangled up in a barbed wire fence and you had to take out your knife and cut through his collar to get him loose. In the process you dropped your knife on the ground and forgot to pick it up.”

  “Hardly plausible.”

  “It doesn’t have to be plausible. Just good enough that no one can call bullshit on you without bringing down the wrath of the Governor.”

  “What was in the knife?”

  “A listening device.”

  “Must have been a small one.”

  Mel was disappointed. “Are you kidding? Don’t be a sap. They can make them the size of fleas now.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “Mary Catherine, some heavy shit is going on, and we need to talk. What time you usually get back to the house?”

  “Around six.”

  “Okay, I’ll drop you off by the park about then,” Mel said. “Hop in.”

  The passenger door of the Mercedes was already ajar. Mary Catherine, a little shell-shocked, climbed into it. Mel sat down behind the wheel, started the engine, drove thirty feet up the road and turned onto a gravel farm road, a tunnel into the corn. He drove for a quarter of a mile, until the main road was shrouded in the mist.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Partly we’re just getting off the road so people won’t see us,” Mel said. “Partly I want to show you something.” Mel let the Mercedes coast to a stop, set the hand brake, and popped his door open.

  A short distance away from the lane was a tree, one of the magnificent, solitary oaks that sprouted from the cornfields every few miles and that was allowed to remain there by the farmers, just because it was beautiful.

  “Now I’m totally lost,” Mary Catherine said, getting out of the car. She faced Mel over the hood. “You’re acting kind of paranoid, Mel, if I can offer a professional opinion.”

  “I’m fully aware of that,” Mel said. “Now, check this out. You might be surprised to know that I have become quite the observer of nature on my little drives down here.”

  “Nature? I didn’t know there was any nature left in downstate.”

  “Well, you have to look for it, but it’s there. Watch the tree.” Mel turned toward the oak, cupped his hands around his face like a megaphone, and then did something incredibly un-Mel-like: he made a high-pitched screeching sound, three sharp falsetto cries.

  The tree rose into the sky. That’s what it looked like, for a moment. A thousand black birds rose from its branches in unison and soared across the cornfield, holding for a moment the shape of the tree, then forming into a tightly organized cloud that twisted around itself, turned inside out, changing directions and leaders but always staying together.

  Mel was grinning at her. “You didn’t know those birds were there, did you?”

  Mary Catherine shook her head no.

  “Look at ’em,” Mel said. “I’ve been watching them from my car. Watch how the flock can vanish.”

  Every bird in the flock snapped into exactly the same banking turn. At a certain point they were all coming directly toward Mel and Mary Catherine, and the flock became nearly invisible as each bird was viewed edge-on. Then Mel made his screeching noise again and they all turned sideways, the hidden flock snapping back into existence, much closer to them, almost merging into a solid wall.

  “You know, Mary Catherine, that I have spent my career as an integral part of the military-industrial complex. Whatever the hell that is.” Mel waved his arm toward a patch of mist at about three o’clock. “Right over there is Willy’s nylon factory, where they made parachutes for the Army. You can’t get much more military, or industrial, than that. So I have always scoffed at people who blamed all the world’s troubles on the military-industrial complex. But I can’t escape the idea that something very big is going on involving our Willy. Something that involves spending an ungodly amount of money.”

  “The biochip implant is definitely a big deal,” Mary Catherine said. She was still mystified by the business with Mel’s little black box, and the bird thing made no sense at all, but she decided to play along for now. “The Radhakrishnan Institute definitely has a lot of money behind it. We knew that from the beginning. And we’ve always been realistic enough to understand that there’s an economic dimension to this therapy. If it goes well, the institute and its backers will have a gold mine on their hands.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Mel said, waving his hand dismissively, “that is all a given. That’s the Invisible Hand argument—that we’re seeing free enterprise in action here. I’ve been thinking about that argument ever since you came back from your inspection trip. It doesn’t hold up under scrutiny.”

  “Why not?”

  “Sure, a lot of people have brain damage. But there are a million diseases. Cancer, muscular dystrophy, car crashes. Now, there’s a good example—car crashes. For decades, a ridiculous number of people died in car crashes. Still do. But even simple things like seat belts took a long time to develop. The car makers had to be dragged kicking and screaming into air bags. The Invisible Hand didn’t work then.”

  “What other possible reason could there be?”

  “That this therapy was developed specifically for one patient—William A. Cozzano.”

  “But you’re talking about a vast expenditure,” Mary Catherine said. “Billions of dollars.”

  “Right,” Mel said, “which means two things: first of all, the people who did this are loaded. In fact, it can’t be a single entity. It has to be a group of separate entities working in tight formation—like that flock of birds. And secondly, they expect to get a huge return on their investment.”

  “What could possibly be worth that much money?”

  “Only one thing I can think of. The presidency of the United States,” Mel said.

  At the intellectual level, Mary Catherine thought this whole conversation was ridiculous. But at some deeper level she was coming down with a severe case of the creeps. She had cooled off from her running now and the sweat on her limbs was suddenly replaced by goosebumps. She said, “And you think that this explanation is actually more believable than the Invisible Hand theory?”

  “I have insufficient data to answer that,” Mel said, “but as long as it’s a possibility, I have to consider it. Maybe you can help gather more information for me, so that I can rule out this ridiculous theory and buy into a more respectable explanation.”

  “What should I do?” Mary Catherine said.

  “First of all, assume it could be true,” Mel said.
“Assume that you might be enmeshed in a very large conspiracy. Assume that you are being listened to and watched, all the time. I already found a bug in my car, and I just found one on you,” Mel said.

  Mary Catherine was stunned. “Are you sure?”

  Mel clenched his jaw and actually looked a little peeved. “Don’t ask me if I’m sure when I say something like this. Of course I’m fucking sure. I have connections you don’t know about, kid. My whole life is not this fucking corncob business.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I went out of town for a couple of days. Came back. Got in my car. Pushed the button for WGN and got some Jesus station from DeKalb. All my station presets were screwed up. So I took it to a friend of a friend who used to work in the Agency, and he found a bug. Then we did a full sweep and found bugs in my house too.”

  “My god,” Mary Catherine said. If Mel was telling the truth, then there really was some heavy shit going on. If he wasn’t, he was demented. Either way, this was starting to get serious.

  “They weren’t Radio Shack specials either,” Mel said, “they were very good bugs. KGB-level technology.”

  “Okay, I’ll assume I’m bugged. Then what?”

  Mel sighed. “Hell, I don’t know. The problem with you downstaters is that everything has to be spelled out.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Just keep your eyes open. Is that too general? You want a specific question from me? I can’t provide you with a specific question.”

  “I’ll keep my eyes peeled for signs of the military-industrial complex,” Mary Catherine said.

  “It’s not that. It’s something else,” Mel said. He turned to look at the flock of birds, which was still careening across the fields, turning this way and that according to some plan that Mel and Mary Catherine couldn’t puzzle out, vanishing and then snapping back into full view, each bird somehow knowing what all the other birds were doing. “Let’s call it the Network.”

  This discussion was crystallizing a number of vague ideas and perceptions that had been floating around in Mary Catherine’s mind for a few months. The outlines of an idea were beginning to emerge, much as Mel and his car had materialized from the fog.

  “There is something going on, now that you mention it,” she said.

  “What can you tell me about it?” Mel asked. He had suddenly relaxed and softened.

  “I don’t know. It’s just that the same few names keep coming up. Gale Aerospace, Pacific Netware, GODS, Genomics, Ogle Data Research, MacIntyre Engineering. They’re independent, yet they act in a coordinated fashion.”

  “Can you give me names of any people who work for the Network?”

  Mary Catherine leaned her forearms on the roof of the car, watching the birds, trying to bring things into focus. “A lot of people work for the Network. Including me, I guess, in a way. Cy Ogle, Dr. Radhakrishnan, Pete Zeldovich, are all in that category. But I’ve only seen one person who seems to be of the Network. Does that make any sense?”

  “Sure. Who is this person?”

  “He is called Mr. Salvador,” Mary Catherine said. “He stops in from time to time. Like he’s on an inspection tour or something. From the way people act around him, I’d say he’s definitely the one in charge.”

  “Of the whole Network?”

  “No.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Just a feeling. He acts like a guy who has a boss. I think he’s in charge of everything pertaining to Dad.”

  “So Salvador is an ops man,” Mel said. “He manages one of the Network’s projects—Willy. Who is this boss of Salvador’s?”

  “I don’t know,” Mary Catherine said. “I’ve had a bare minimum of contact with Salvador. His boss doesn’t even enter the picture.”

  “Can you give me any clues at all? Does he make phone calls when he’s there?”

  “Yeah. But he uses the phone in his car.”

  “Does he get phone calls, or letters, at the house?”

  Mary Catherine suddenly remembered something. She stood up straight and stared intently at nothing in particular, her eyes jumping back and forth as she tried to reconstruct the memory. “Yesterday morning when I was coming back from my run, a GODS van pulled up in front of the house. The driver had an envelope for Mr. Salvador. But he wasn’t in; he was due to show up a few hours later. So I signed for the envelope. Salvador showed up later and ripped it open. And threw it away.”

  “You’re saying that the envelope is still in the garbage?”

  “They’re too security-conscious to throw things in the garbage. They only throw away things like McDonald’s wrappers. Everything else goes into a burn bag, or straight to a shredder.”

  “My god, it’s just like the Agency,” Mel said.

  “I think that they shred the contents of envelopes. But the envelopes themselves go into the burn bag—and those only get collected once or twice a week. So I may be able to dig it out.”

  “I need that envelope. It has tracking codes and stuff on it,” Mel said.

  “I’ll do some looking around later,” Mary Catherine said.

  Mel looked ever so slightly crestfallen. Apparently she had not shown enough enthusiasm for this cloak-and-dagger assignment.

  He had a Bruckner symphony going on the CD player in the trunk of the Mercedes. He climbed back into the driver’s seat and turned it up. Mary Catherine climbed in too. They sat in the car and listened to it for a few minutes.

  “Listen to me,” Mel said, turning it down again, “I’m way behind the curve in dealing with this thing.”

  “How’s that?”

  Mel laughed. In another man it would have been a laugh devoid of humor. But Mel had a talent for finding humor in strange places and he seemed genuinely amused, though he was not exactly happy. “I’m supposed to be Willy’s trusted adviser. I’m supposed to tell him whether it’s a good idea to run for president. And now look. He’s announcing in a few hours. And I’m still trying to figure out what the hell’s going on.”

  Mary Catherine had nothing to say to that. She waited for Mel to continue.

  “I take my job very seriously and right now I’m failing at it,” Mel said. “I have to get my ass in gear. I have to do stuff. To take steps. Some of what I do may not make me very popular with the Network. So let me ask you something: do you want to work with me? Or not? Either way is fine.”

  It was Mary Catherine’s turn to laugh. “Either way is not fine,” she said. “We’re talking about Dad.”

  “No, we’re not,” Mel said gently, “we’re talking about what your dad became when that chip went into his head. And I’m not sure it’s the same thing.”

  This was such a disturbing comment that Mary Catherine decided not to let it sink in just now. “Well, even if he were just another presidential candidate—one way I’m doing good and one way I’m doing evil.”

  “Leave it to a farmer to see things in those terms,” Mel said. “Okay, are you going to do good or evil?”

  “Good,” Mary Catherine said.

  “That’s a nice girl,” Mel said.

  “I think that Dad wants to do good also—whatever you might think,” Mary Catherine said.

  Mel turned and looked at her face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know,” she said, “there are many cases of people who have had strokes and recovered from them.”

  “I thought the brain tissue was dead. How can you recover from being dead?”

  “The dead tissue doesn’t recover. But in some cases, other parts of the brain can take over for the parts that died. It takes a lot of work. A lot of therapy. And some luck. But it’s been known to happen. There are people who had half of their brains blown out in Vietnam who are walking and talking normally today.”

  “You don’t say. Why didn’t you try this with Willy?”

  “We did,” Mary Catherine said, “but when the chance of a quick fix arose, he opted for that. There’s no telling where he would have gone with normal therapy.�
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  “You think he might have come back?”

  “The chances are very low,” she said. “But remember, he’s mixed-brain dominant. People like that have a knack for recovering from these injuries.”

  “So what are you saying exactly—about Willy wanting to do good?”

  “I’m saying that the Network may be able to exert great influence over him through the biochip,” she said, “but that underneath, his brain may be struggling to reassert control. And that if he pursues the proper therapy, we can increase the chances that this will eventually happen.”

  “What kind of therapy?” Mel said.

  “He just has to use his head. That’s all,” Mary Catherine said. “He has to exercise his brain and his body, in a lot of different ways, and retrain his neural pathways.”

  “Hell,” Mel said, “a presidential campaign’s not exactly the place for that.”

  “Granted,” she said, “unless the candidate travels with, dines with, and rooms with a neurologist.”

  She and Mel locked eyes for a moment.

  “You sure?” Mel said.

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  forty

  “LAST YEAR at about this time I accepted an invitation from the chairman of my party to deliver the keynote speech at their convention, a couple of weeks from today,” William A. Cozzano said. “Last night, I telephoned him from my home here in Tuscola and expressed my regrets that I would be unable to participate in that convention in any way, shape, or form—as a keynote speaker, a delegate, or a nominee. And he was gracious enough to accept my apology for this sudden change of plans.”

  Cozzano finally paused long enough to allow the crowd to detonate—something that they were primed to do, since they had been practicing it under the eye of Cy Ogle’s crowd handlers for the last hour and a half. When he finally paused for breath, the freshly painted bleachers surrounding the Tuscola High School football field suddenly bloomed with signs, banners, balloons, confetti, and all the other bright insubstantialities of a political campaign.

  “It’s not that I bear a grudge against my party, because I don’t. In fact, I am still a card-carrying member and expect to remain one, assuming they’ll still have me after today.”