Coming of Age: Volume 2: Endless Conflict

by Thomas T. Thomas

  “This is your liver,” Dr. Ming said, holding the wand steady with her right hand and using her left forefinger to outline an area on the screen.

  “It looks like a bag full of marbles,” Wells said.

  “Well, yes. Given your genetic predisposition and your previous history of polycystic kidney disease, I would expect to see this.”

  “And those are cysts … on my liver?”

  “About two and a half centimeters. Like grapes.”

  “Why doesn’t all that hurt like hell? I hardly feel anything.”

  “The liver is a remarkable organ, able to regenerate itself. These cysts can form in the bile ducts, then become detached and migrate to the organ’s periphery. The liver will still function normally, no matter how large it becomes. It is the rest of your body that feels the pressure.”

  “And you’re sure of this? It’s not some kind of cancer?”

  “Your blood chemistry suggests otherwise. You have a high level of alkaline phosphatase, which often accompanies polycystic liver disease.”

  “What happens next? Will I get jaundice and go all yellow?”

  “No, liver function is almost never involved. This stage of the disease is seldom fatal unless there are complications, such as from infection or obstruction of the bile ducts.” Dr. Ming shrugged. “However, the recommended course is to draw your stem cells, clean up the PKD1 and PKD2 genes, and grow you a new liver. You have experienced this before, I understand.”

  “Yes, two new kidneys, years ago.” Wells reflected that having the genes for polycystic disease was like playing whack-a-mole: first the kidneys, then the liver. What would come next? But instead she asked, “When can we start?”

  “I will draw the cells today. We can schedule an implant in a few weeks.”

  “Excellent! Let’s get this thing over and done with.”

  * * *

  Bolin Hsu, whose given name meant “Gentle Rain,” fingered the piece of rice paper that had been dyed blood red. It was the traditional way of triggering these affairs. No electronics. No ghost voices from the computers. Not even a telephone call. Hsu was a devotee of wushu, the eclectic synthesis of ancient Chinese martial arts, and he believed in the old ways. For most of his assignments, he preferred bare hands or an edged weapon, face to face with superior chi’i, rather than with bullets and killing from a safe distance.

  The paper had been passed to him outside the Lucky Carp Fish Market in Seattle’s historic Pike Place. No one actually gave him the paper, so he never saw a face or had a name to go with it. Instead, it suddenly appeared in his pocket, perhaps after he had been bumped or jostled in the crowd outside the market. It was the usual way that the Xin Dalu Tong, the New World Community Association, retained his services. In fact, he had passed by the market this day in hopes of such a job.

  According to tradition, the paper held two pieces of information: a name and an amount. The name was always in black Chinese brush script, a phonetic translation into familiar syllables, if the person was not actually Chinese. The amount was always in gold. But this time the paper held two names, two amounts.

  Hsu tried to sound out these unfamiliar names.

  “Ji-an Pa-reng-che-si.” That would take some thinking.

  “Cai-lia-shi-ta Pa-reng-che-si.” Obviously related to the first name.

  He then noted that the price for the first name was double that for the second.

  This suggested a father-child relationship between the two. These were obviously important names, of important people, westerners who had offended the tong, or the national government which it represented.

  Hsu would start by tracing all the westerners in the Seattle area who bore similar names in similar relationships. The modern computer voices were useful for this. And if that search turned up nothing, he would go further afield. Somewhere within the sphere of the Xin Dalu Tong—which was to say within the North American continent—these two people lived and, for the moment, breathed.

  * * *

  Leonard Littlefield answered the call to his cousin’s—his uncle’s—no, his mother’s cousin’s office inside the Fremont compound called Fort Apache. He had just returned from a year at the Louvre, where he and other volunteers from across the world had catalogued its irreproducible artworks and artifacts and arranged for their disposal and deportation before the building was rededicated as the new Grande Mosquée de Paris. He had performed this work at the Praxis Family Association’s expense, as charity as well as a labor of love.

  “You asked to see me, Cousin Jeffrey?” he said.

  “Are you ready for real work?” the older man asked.

  Leonard bristled. “That would be as opposed to …?”

  “Sightseeing in Paris through your degree in fine arts.”

  “I was doing something important for western civilization.”

  “And now I have an assignment for you from the Patriarch.”

  “Oh!” Leonard recalled that his great-grandfather was still alive.

  “He wants me to build a royal palace on Cherry Lake, on the eastern edge of our property in the Stanislaus Forest.” Jeffrey made a sour face. “It’s twenty miles east of everything—airline miles, that is. Fifty miles or more by road.”

  “Does he say what he wants it for?”

  “ ‘Charm,’ he says. I don’t know.”

  “He must have something particular in mind, though,” Leonard said. “Or else why would you have called on me?”

  Cousin Jeffrey pulled up some pictures on his comm wall. “Grandfather John says he wants a ‘family retreat.’ So I’m thinking it should have at least a reception hall, private apartments for John, Callie, and other senior family members, with guest rooms for about twenty more, plus lounging areas and baths, multi-use spaces, a theater, central courtyard, pool facilities, and of course kitchens, custodial, communications suite, and armory. Probably a boat dock, too.” He paused. “Oh, and it has to look exactly like that.” He pointed. “Right down to the stonework and the mullioned windows.”

  “But that’s Le Château de Chenonceau.” The profile, the setting, the color of the stone were unmistakable from Leonard’s own personal memory. “You realize…” he began, then paused. “Have you ever been to Chenonceau?”

  “No, just seen these pictures. But I understand Grandfather John visited there some years ago.”

  “Well, I got to see it before they tore it down. The original is indeed charming, but the plan was laid out for the needs of a sixteenth-century nobleman. The building only has three floors with just four rooms on each level—no more than a dozen rooms all told, not counting the basement kitchen and wine cellar. None of the rooms is much larger than a New York City studio apartment. And, of course, there’s no courtyard or pool. It’s a small residence—built by a king for his favorite mistress—not a fortification or center of court life.”

  “So, since you know so much about the place,” Jeffrey said, “help us design the inside to fit this outside.”

  “But … it doesn’t work that way. Besides, for another thing, Chenonceau is built across a river, not along the shore of a lake. There’s no place for the gallery on those arched spans. It’s just all wrong for your site.”

  “Then help us get it right.”

  “But I’m not an architect.”

  “No, but you do have artistic vision—or so everyone says. Use that vision now. Make us proud. Make your great-grandfather proud.”

  “But I don’t know how to design a building.”

  “Oh, well. We certainly have a cure for that.”

  “What? Are you sending me back to school?”

  “No, let me introduce you to Master Builder.”

  Jeffrey brought up the interface and described for him the artificial intelligence that would do the heavy lifting. All Leonard would have to do was feed it the historic plans and scale images of the château and answer a few questions from experience—things the intelligence couldn’t possibly know from reviewing the pictures,
like the exact color and texture of the stone. Leonard might also have to make a few decisions about artistic features, interior furnishing, and decoration. Then, when Master Builder had done its work, Leonard would review the design specifications and check the perspectives as the program spit them out. It even had a horticultural package that would landscape the formal gardens.

  “Where will you find all the limestone, granite, and slate?” Leonard asked.

  “We have quarry sites on the property. Or we can arrange to import.”

  “Tons of it? Because that’s what a project this size will need.”

  “You just get the ‘charm’ right. I’ll take care of details.”

  Somehow Leonard doubted it would be that simple.

  * * *

  Jacquie Wildmon retrieved the data packages formatted by her experimental psychoanalytic intelligence, which bore the provisional name of Interlocutor 1.2 and had been sent as a gift to Grandfather John. She fed the blocks into the software’s current version running on her own servers, which was Interlocutor 2.0.

  Are you certain this is ethical? the machine asked.

  What would be your concern? she replied.

  Doctor-patient confidentiality.

  That does not apply.

  How so? it inquired.

  Neither you nor the machine Grandfather talked to are doctors.

  He accepted my brother as such. He named him “Shrink,” which is a human reference to a type of doctor.

  Grandfather was trying to be funny.

  He was expecting privacy.

  All right, he was. Then she sent on override: Close line of inquiry.

  The machine did a soft reset of parameters.

  What do you interpret from these responses? she asked.

  The man is lonely, Interlocutor sent.

  Yes, Jacquie replied as she studied the English version of the transcripts that appeared on the wall alongside the Interlocutor’s symbology and its metadata.

  Grandfather believes he’s lost the great love of his life, this Antigone Wells, she mused for the machine’s benefit. He hardly mentions my grandmother, and that’s only with prompting. Of course, Grandma had the real misfortune of merely dying, while the Wells woman committed emotional and social suicide—thus leaving herself, her intellect, her face and body, available but out of reach.

  All of this comes from the data?

  No, no. I’m just being bitter.

  What do you want to know?

  Is Grandfather still rational?

  Interlocutor paused, chasing the data and formulating his reply. Yes, according to human norms. He has good verbal reflexes, maintains eye contact, uses appropriate vocabulary without lapses, and demonstrates adequate attention span for a man of his age. Or whatever is normal for a human being of one hundred thirty-four years. On that, no basis for comparison exists.

  Thank you, Jacquie said.

  What will you do with this information?

  Report it to Aunt Callie. There have been questions about him inside the family. This will answer them.

  What about doctor-patient confidentiality?

  That situation does not apply.

  Indeed? How so?

  Close inquiry.

  * * *

  Leonard Littlefield stood on the shore of Cherry Lake and watched a miracle take place. He had been camped at the lake for a week now, pitching his tent well out of the way. He monitored the activity through a portable version of Master Builder which lived in a device no bigger than his smartphone. It took three days for Leonard to realize that the intelligence’s presence in his pocket was provided for his own benefit. The work would go on, directed by unseen forces from other sources, without either his direction or Master Builder’s running commentary.

  Ever since he and the intelligence had produced a final set of plans and elevations, imaged in exquisite, lifelike detail, and approved by Great-Grandfather—“Nice to have you back, son”—the machines had been at work all through the family’s forest preserve. And such machines! They arose from baths of liquid metal and polymer, acquired neural circuitry and hydraulic musculature under the ministrations of mechanical midwives and their metallic fingers, and stepped forward to be immediately packaged and whisked out of the Fremont compound and away to the Sierras. There, with chisel teeth and laser sighting, they began digging at quarries that had already been marked out by mechanical Geologists, all under the direction of Little Brothers who held in their memory cores the exact vision embedded in Master Builder’s instruction set.

  The robot Quarriers cut not just rough stones or blocks, but fully shaped pieces, angled and keyed, requiring only a final polish—or not, according to plan—from the Finishers with their whirling paw pads. And such stone! From within the Stanislaus Forest’s boundaries the Geologists had located not only gray, flecked granite, but the quartz and white chert—a type of flint—that would pass for the best Chenonceau limestone. And the Quarriers took out not just single stones but whole slabs of it ready for shaping and carving. Down near the Tuolumne River they had discovered a cache of black slate, suitable for the roofing tiles.

  Before Leonard had arrived in the mountains, teams of Artificers fitted for underwater work had laid the château’s foundation island on the lake bottom, as well as smaller piles for the five piers that would support the gallery leading to it. Now gray humps of rock—not humped, he saw, but stepped—extended out across the surface of the blue water.

  Leonard had needed to do a bit of fore-and-aft redesign with Master Builder to make the original château fit the site. The main entrance of the castle in France had crossed a drawbridge connecting it with the north bank of the River Cher and the formal gardens, while the gallery was an afterthought, extending south to the opposite bank. By putting the main building on an island, and using the gallery as the only approach from the shore, they had essentially reversed the building’s polarity. But it was a small change. And it let them use the stage of the drawbridge that now faced the lake as a boat dock.

  As he watched, tracked carriers brought the shaped and polished blocks of granite, quartz, and chert from all over the forest down to the shoreline, placed them in exact order on the cleared space that eventually would be the formal gardens, and then retreated again into the trees. Leonard marveled that they had been able to find or make just the right pieces needed for the next level to be added to the stepped piles that were growing out of the lake’s surface. It was not like fitting a three-dimensional puzzle together. It was like knowing what pieces to cut and bring to a place where the puzzle was growing on its own for the first time.

  Supported by motorized barges, Artificers selected stones from the beach, rode out to the island, and began climbing over the steps. These single-purpose machines walked back and forth, as if undecided, looking for the right position for the stone they held. Once they made a decision, however, a signal went out—invisible to Leonard, except through Master Builder’s comments—for a Grouter to step forward and prepare a bed of cement. Only when that surface was ready, did the Artificer set the stone down in final position and vibrate it into place. For all his days of watching, Leonard had never seen one of them make a mistake that needed to be broken out and replaced. So the curtain walls rose in blocks of gray granite and white chert.

  Leonard, who had always preferred human ingenuity and the work of human hands to anything artificial and mechanical, had an epiphany in that week. He suddenly realized that he was watching a fairytale enacted by these machines. Strange creatures under their own motivation were marching out of the enchanted forest, bearing perfectly shaped stones for building the wizard’s magic castle.

  * * *

  Antigone Wells had been lying on her back in the pre-op room at the Mission Bay medical center for an hour and twenty minutes by her watch. The watch—an elderly device of gold and crystal with steel gears inside, which did nothing more than tell time—was the only personal item the nurses had let her wear, having ordered her to strip
naked and put on one of those ridiculous cotton gowns that tied behind her neck. Then they made her promise to remind them to take the watch before they wheeled her into surgery.

  Wells wasn’t cold, because they had laid her on a gurney under a plastic blanket that pumped warm air over her torso and legs. She wasn’t thirsty, because they had put an IV in the back of her hand and started a saline drip. But she was intensely bored.

  The anesthetist had come to take some readings and make encouraging sounds. The nurses checked on her every ten minutes or so, to ask if she needed anything—then told her she couldn’t have it when she suggested a cup of coffee or a snack.

  Dr. Ming Meirong stopped by to see how she was feeling and to explain the procedure. “But you’re an old hand at this by now, I’ll bet.” And she left.

  Ten minutes later Dr. Ming returned, removed the air blanket, and asked Wells to pull up her gown. Only then did the nurse draw the curtain around her gurney. The doctor felt her abdomen, examining the old liver with her fingertips. It still felt … bulgy. Dr. Ming took a felt pen out of her jumper pocket and made black marks on Wells’s skin—apparently guides for her first incisions.

  Finally, the anesthetist came back, gave Wells two pills to swallow with a sip of water, and slipped a syringe of clear liquid into the spike in her drip. “In a few minutes,” she said, “you’ll start to feel drowsy. Then we’ll be ready to begin.”

  But Wells felt clear headed, sharp even. Not drowsy at all. She waited quietly for the drugs to kick in, but they never did. At some point, one of the nurses quietly unfastened the watch and slipped it into her own pocket. “Never mind,” the woman murmured.

  Someone else drew back the curtain, disconnected the air blanket, and started pushing the gurney out of the room. Still clear headed, Wells bumped through a set of double doors, sailed down a corridor different from the one through which she had entered the pre-op room, and passed two more doors. The gurney slowed as it came into an area of cool shade, soft murmurs, and gowned figures.