The Incrementalists

by Steven Brust

  “What do you mean, Jimmy?” Ramon asked.

  “I think Phil chose Ren specifically for her strength,” Jimmy said.

  I laughed dully. “Celeste chose me.”

  “I don’t think so,” Jimmy said.

  I dropped my head back against the chair, but Ramon folded his legs up under him and leaned his elbows on his knees, suddenly alert.

  “Celeste chose Ren, and meddled with Phil, and with us, so no one was watching,” Oskar said.

  “Jimmy was watching,” Ramon said. “And … Jimmy?”

  “And I wrote Phil and asked what he was up to.” Jimmy split open an Oreo.

  “And … Jimmy?”

  “And when Phil didn’t respond, I got in touch with Irina. We had all seen the signs in Celeste, right? She was losing her curiosity, showing all the indications of a personality in decline. When I saw what Phil seeded about Ren, I thought he was trying to hurry Celeste’s exit up as a coup de grâce, a stroke of mercy, to save her from the ugliness of it.” Jimmy regarded the two Oreo halves. The filling had come apart cleanly in a single white cushion on one side. “Phil knew Ren was strong,” he went on, looking at me. “He called it out specifically. And like Matsu said, we always select for that anyway, but your real power wasn’t obvious. It’s more endurance than fight, isn’t it? Not the kind of strong personality we tend to recruit when we select for dominance.”

  “Like you would have done with my stub, if Celeste had managed to pin her death on me,” Oskar said.

  Jimmy stuck the two Oreo halves back together and popped the whole cookie in his mouth. He chewed and swallowed. “I do think she was hoping for that.”

  “We never doubted you,” Matsu told Oskar.

  “Ren did.”

  “Yeah, I did. I’m sorry.” I was fighting to follow the conversation, feeling light-headed with worry and exhaustion, and battered by my struggle with Ramon in Celeste’s cellar. When you’re trespassing, I guess other people’s analogies can hurt you. I wanted to throw everyone out of Phil’s house and just hold on to him until he opened his eyes. But these were his friends, and I knew they wanted him safe as much as I did.

  I knew Phil did math to settle his mind. I couldn’t do that, but I remembered what he’d said about how loving Celeste had given her ammunition against him. I wanted to arm him.

  “Oskar,” I said. “I really am sorry I believed what Celeste was feeding me.”

  Oskar shrugged, and the anger went out of him. In its absence, I saw the pain Celeste’s betrayal had caused him. Good. He loved her too.

  “What do you think Celeste will do next?” I asked him.

  “Take a bath?” Oskar shrugged again, his large shoulders hunched over his knees. “Celeste loved luxury. Any little discomfort—a shoe that didn’t quite fit, a slight head cold—would make her furious. She always wanted to be comfortable, but she never felt safe.”

  “That’s true,” Jimmy said.

  “Phil was probably as close as Celeste ever came to safety,” Ramon said, and Jimmy and I both winced for Oskar.

  “Jesus, Ray,” Jimmy said.

  “What?” Ramon countered. “It’s true. If Phil had said anything to her about how bitter she was getting—”

  “He told me they fought about everything,” I said, cutting in. I needed them focused on learning what we could do, and quickly.

  “They surely did,” Oskar chuckled. “Every solitary thing.”

  “Was there a core to their disagreements?” I asked. “Did all their fights boil down to the same differences? Matsu, was there a pattern?”

  Matsu closed his eyes.

  Oskar studied the rug. “I’m not sure why,” he said, “but for as long as Phil’s been doing this, he has never lost his love for the work.”

  “I asked him about that once,” Jimmy said. “He said he always wanted to know how the stories ended.”

  “But what I’m trying to say is that Phil’s basic impulse was towards stuff,” Oskar said. “Towards the nemones, towards new technology, new recruits. Towards me, even when you were ready to leave me behind.” Oskar’s gaze took in Matsu and Ramon.

  Ramon nodded vigorously. “Just so,” he said. “And Celeste’s basic impulse was just the opposite. She never moved toward anything, only away from things.”

  “She was always afraid.”

  “So she’s afraid, and now she knows Phil’s in her Garden. What’s her next move?” I said. “What will she do now?”

  “She’s dead,” Jimmy said. “I have no idea how she does anything.”

  “How does someone that fearful kill herself?” I said, fighting frustration and incomprehension. “It still doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  “Oh, Celeste wasn’t afraid of dying.” Ramon waved a hand dismissively.

  “What?” I said, boggled.

  “She was just terrified of pain,” Oskar said.

  “She would never risk heartbreak or injury,” Matsu agreed.

  “She carried a stockpile of medicine everywhere with her,” Ramon put in. “Everything from antacids to Xanax.”

  “Vicodin,” Oskar said grimly.

  “I still don’t understand.” I was somewhere between wanting to scream and starting to cry.

  Jimmy put a steadying hand on my arm. “The fear of death is easy to cure. All it takes is faith. Religions have known as much for millennia and have sold their respite dear. But faith in reincarnation, or in the resurrection of the body, or in ultimate immateriality, or even in your fellow Incrementalists is enough.”

  “Celeste was afraid of suffering, but not dying?” I said.

  “Right.” Jimmy gave me a kind smile and ate another Oreo. “Not of her body dying, anyway. Not if she—that strange alchemy of memory and habit, inclination and aptitude—survived. It is that—the unique self, personality plus memory—which we save in stub and create in Seconds.”

  “And that’s what you think Phil saw fading in her?” I asked.

  “We all did,” Ramon said. “We can see pivots, remember, because we know so intricately the pattern of what makes up a personality. Pivots are frontal assaults on the self. They call for change so significant that the old personality effectively dies. That’s why we all—Incrementalists and nemones alike—fight against the turning points in our lives that change who we are, or how we understand our world. Big leaps in growth aren’t growth. They’re stub and Second.”

  “Jimmy?” Matsu said.

  Jimmy was tipped back in Phil’s office chair, eyes closed. He sat up. “Phil’s cracked the alpha-lock,” he said. “Holy fuck.”

  “Yeah,” Phil said. “Let’s eat.”

  Phil

  Ren was in my arms, kneeling in front of the chair with her arms around my neck. I held her. When I glanced up, I saw that Oskar was looking away, Jimmy was smiling, Matt was staring off into space, and Ray was looking thoughtful. He finally said, “How did you—”

  “There’s a Raggedy Ann doll hanged by the neck until dead in my atrium. Help yourselves. We’re going to figure out what to eat.”

  Actually, we did a lot of holding and very little figuring while they all grazed.

  “Clever,” said Ray, which was about as close as he could come to giving me a compliment.

  “Thanks.”

  “Risky,” said Jimmy. “If it almost worked, but didn’t quite, Celeste would know what you were up to. She’d have come up with something different that we wouldn’t know about.”

  I shrugged. “Seemed worth the gamble.”

  Ren kissed my neck. I squeezed.

  Oskar said, “I’m good with the eating idea.”

  “On me,” said Jimmy. “Best place in town.”

  “But old Vegas style,” Ren said. “Not slick corporate.”

  I stroked Ren’s hair and said, “Is that all right with you, Oskar? I mean, it’s going to be bourgeois and all that.”

  “I do not object to eating well. I object to how many people can’t.”

  Sometimes it�
�s just impossible to bait him.

  I called the Four Queens, had them transfer me to Hugo’s, and got reservations for half an hour. We took Jimmy’s rental because it was the size of an ocean liner. Ren and I claimed the backseat.

  “I was worried about you,” she said.

  “Who is Celeste?”

  She frowned. “I don’t know.”

  “I’m worried about you, too. But we’ll come through it.”

  Downtown was a bit of a pain, but we got there. Hugo’s Cellar was well named, because it was in a cellar and felt like it, but a rather pleasant cellar. Ren was given a rose as we entered, and she seemed startled and pleased. Eric was our waiter. Jimmy had the Kona coffee with me, and we shared some snails. I like snails. I had the rack of lamb, Ren had the Beef Wellington. Jimmy, after a long conversation in French with John, the wine steward, decided on a couple of wines that were good, though I suppose I didn’t appreciate them as much as he did.

  Chef Jason came out while we were eating and clapped me on the shoulder.

  “You do know everyone, don’t you?” said Ren.

  “Jason, this is Ren, Matt, Oskar, and Ray. Everyone, this is Jason. My God, Jason, but you’ve gotten fat.”

  “Would you trust a skinny chef?” he said.

  We gave him the requisite compliments—sincere, by the way—and when he left, Ray said, “All right, Phil. What was in the kithara?”

  “Let Jimmy graze it; I don’t want to spoil my dinner.”

  Jimmy was quiet for a few minutes, then he said, “It’s as we thought. There is little there, just taking the pills and plans for the alpha-lock. And—”

  We all looked at him.

  “There is another alpha-locked memory out there. Hidden.”

  “Of course,” said Ray. “Her stub. She made a copy and alpha-locked it. There might be dozens; one for each life as long as she’s been doing this.”

  “Now we know, at least,” said Oskar.

  “And so,” said Ray, “what’s next?”

  “Once we’ve eaten,” I said, “we need to find Irina, now also known as Celeste, and finish this.”

  “Finish it how, my friend?” said Jimmy quietly.

  I looked at Matt, who looked away.

  “However it takes,” I said.

  Jimmy said, “Stubbing her—”

  “Won’t solve the problem,” I said.

  “Just so you know that.”

  “I do,” I said, and ate some more lamb.

  Ren

  I could almost feel the meat nourishing me. It climbed through my veins, sweetly—incrementally—nudged along by wine. Phil’s knee pressed against mine, and whenever he didn’t need it for his food, he’d slide a hand under the table and squeeze my thigh. Loved and safe, exhausted and sated, I savored every sip and laugh. This was good, and had history, which grounded me somehow. Jimmy delivered an impassioned paean to his duck flambé, and even Ramon came out of his head long enough to experience rather than dissect his supper.

  It wasn’t until after the chef, who’d made us all howl with a story from his sous chef days under a terrifying Frenchman he claimed bore an uncanny resemblance to Jimmy, had blown us all kisses and left, and Ramon asked Phil what was next, that I realized how not-done the day’s work was. And I resented it. I wanted the Incrementalists to go away, leaving Phil as Phil and not the fulcrum of some weighty operation. I wanted him alone, smiling and pleasure-soaked as he had been the minute before. But all the indulgence and languor was gone in the exchange of glances between him and Matsu. Resolve circled the table like a breadbasket. Whatever we would undertake tonight, although none of us were certain what that might be, we were united in it.

  I would have said we were unstoppable, but I would have been wrong. We finished our meals in subdued solidarity, and ten minutes after Ramon’s practical question, we were saying good-night to the waiter. Whom Phil knew by name. We left in a unified clump, so I could have ducked down among the tall shoulders. Or I could have backpedalled to our private room. All the posh spots have secret doors, and Phil’s waiter-friend would have smuggled me out. But sometimes you just have to brazen up and take the bullet.

  I waved.

  God, was it only this morning I’d advised him to take Jorge to dinner?

  Liam waved back. “Ren!” he called, beckoning, and I watched his face melt from pleased, to confused, to surprised, to a little bit frightened as I, along with Phil, and Jimmy, and Ramon, and Oskar, and Matsu obeyed his summons.

  “Hi, Liam,” I said. “Great to see you, Jorge. These are my friends.” I introduced them by name while Liam tried wildly to ask, in a truly bizarre eyebrow and soundless-mouth semaphore, which of these men was my new special friend. I smiled blandly. “Jimmy recommends the duck,” I said.

  “Won’t you join us?” Jorge asked.

  I was already shaking my head, when Jimmy spoke up. “I know Phil has a poker table waiting for him,” he said. “World Series of, don’t you know. And I believe Matsu as well? But Ramon, Oskar and I would love a chance at the third Chilean red. We quite liked the first two. If I could persuade you gentlemen to join us for a glass?”

  Phil managed to catch my hand in the confusion of accommodating me plus three additional rather large men at Liam and Jorge’s tiny two-top. “Call me when you get out of here,” he said.

  “Sure,” I promised. “Gonna teach me to play poker?”

  “Not tonight.”

  And he was gone.

  Oskar offered me a chair between him and Jimmy, with just enough formality to derail Liam, who had pegged Oskar as my most recent and extreme flirtation with the bad boy type. He squinted at Jimmy.

  Jimmy raised a glass of the newly poured Chilean. “To the simplicity and refinement of truly excellent wine,” he said.

  Jorge smiled and we all touched glasses.

  They both ordered the duck. Jimmy introduced Jorge to a varietal Carménère he’d never tried, and I realized yet another layer of what it meant that Jimmy had been watching Phil and that, when Phil hadn’t wanted to leave Vegas during the World Series of Poker, Jimmy had been the one who did the additional research needed to delay Jorge in New York and bring me here. Jimmy knew all about my work and my bosses. He knew how music, even more than smell, could trigger memory, and that allowing patients to select the tunes assigned to reminders might make the difference between remembering medication and forgetting what the damn monitor was for in the first place. He knew why I did the work I did. And I watched him translate it into wine.

  Jimmy was funny and subtle, and Liam and Jorge laughed and nodded along as he wove a body-anchored web of value statements and sense memories detailing the virtue of patience, of care and precision. “Smell the wine,” he insisted. “Cherry and earth,” he said. “Tobacco, dark chocolate, leather.” I made a mental note of Jorge’s scent switches.

  Jimmy told a hysterical story about sloppiness punished, and with one finger, ever so slightly touched Jorge’s head, just by his ear. “This wine is made by a vintner who has achieved through his work, from the seeds he plants, to the time he waits, not success, but mastery. A life given to worthy work, is itself, a work of art,” he said.

  I could almost hear Jorge’s mental oath to become not successful, as he had always and easily been, but masterful.

  Whether its story was true or not, the wine tasted good, so I drank it and watched a meddle master work. Oskar put a brotherly arm around me and I hugged his wrist between my cheek and shoulder. We were forgiven. Liam was intrigued. I drank my wine and winked at my boss.

  I missed Phil, and wondered how he and Matsu were doing, and whether they were playing poker. I figured Matsu was pretty good insurance, but no matter what Ramon said about the body only housing the self, I wanted Phil whole, house and occupant. House and home. And I figured even Matsu couldn’t keep an eye on Phil if he didn’t want to be watched.

  Phil

  Matt and I found a cab next to Binion’s and went through the ritual: The do
orman asked where we were going, I said, “The Palms.” He leaned over and told the cabbie, “Two for The Palms,” and we were off. Matt didn’t say a word during the drive, and neither did I.

  Once we were out, with no one around us, he said, “What do you hope to accomplish?”

  “To find the next layer of her plan.”

  “How, meddle with her?”

  “Who? Celeste or Irina?”

  “One will cover the other. Unless you can surprise her again. If you can do that, either will work. If not—”

  “Can you think of a way to do that?”

  “No,” he said. “Then how?”

  “I don’t know.”

  We entered the lobby. “You wait here,” I told him.

  “No,” he said.

  I exhaled slowly. “All right.”

  We took the elevator to eight. Mom and Dad and two kids in wet swimming suits and towels joined us for the ride along with a girl who looked about nine and didn’t appear related to any of them. They all continued up after we left.

  “You see it?” he said.

  “The way everyone was afraid of Mom? Yeah. Want to fix it?”

  “If you’ll come with me.”

  I shrugged. “The abuse isn’t physical.”

  “So that’s all right, then?”

  “Nothing is all right.”

  “Is all right the goal?”

  “The goal is better.”

  “Yes,” said Matt. “It is.”

  I knocked on the door.

  The peephole went dark, then light, and then there was a delay of a good ten seconds before Irina opened the door and said, “Phil. You bastard.”

  She crossed to the other side of the room, leaning against the desk; there was a couch and a pair of stuffed chairs next to the table. Matt and I came in. “Good to see the two of you, as well. Which one am I talking to, or is it possible to decide?”

  “Celeste,” she said, furious. “Celeste, stuck in this old lady’s body with no one for company except—”

  “Oh, hush,” I said. “No one feels any sympathy for you except maybe Irina, so don’t talk trash about her.”

  “You fucked up everything,” she said.