Shovel Ready: A Novel

by Adam Sternbergh

  Milgram folds his arms.

  And they say you can’t be everywhere at once.

  I shrug.

  Miracles of the modern world.

  Milgram nods.

  Indeed.

  Margo, still smoking. Having cracked pack number two.

  That cut on your forehead looks nasty. You get that looked at?

  It’s fine.

  Mina stroking, then coaxing, then cursing her keyboard. Mutters.

  Now where did you get to?

  What happened?

  Seriously, I need quiet right now.

  Long suck on a cigarette. Paper sizzles.

  You didn’t lose her, did you? Somewhere in there?

  No.

  No?

  No. I didn’t.

  Okay, good.

  Mina scours the screen.

  Not her. Him.

  She follows the path through the pasture. Butterflies flutter and land on her softly.

  The path ends at a temple.

  End of the yellow brick road.

  The temple is columned, like in Roman times. Or someone’s idea of Roman times.

  She climbs the stairs to the towering oaken doors.

  Each one as tall as a building in its own right. Round iron knockers, big as hula hoops, for giants, she guesses.

  The rest of the temple made of gold.

  Two farmboys, strapping lads, stand sentry. Dressed as centurions. They stay silent.

  The doors swing open.

  Inside, a courtyard.

  Statues.

  Fountains.

  At the far end, a throne.

  Her father stands.

  Milgram kills time by giving me a tour, like we’re in a museum.

  At one time, banks were thought of almost like churches. I mean, look at this structure. It’s magnificent. The painting on the ceiling alone would have taken months to complete. And the vault. Breathtaking, no? A kind of holy of holies in its own right. It’s sad to think it’s all moved online now. Data zipping hither and yon. All so ephemeral. Nothing left to stain your fingers with.

  While he prattles I think of what Persephone told me. About the dream. About Paved With Gold.

  About Rachel.

  Milgram was the mastermind.

  You look beautiful, Grace.

  Her father, in a rippling white robe. Majestic. Imperial. Laurel wreath on his brow. His obsession with emperors. He can name the succession by heart. Augustus. Tiberius. Caligula. Claudius.

  So much for the footsteps of the humble carpenter, huh, Dad?

  I know it’s all a bit over-the-top, Grace. But you know, render unto Caesar and so on. And don’t forget, this is heaven. Or as close as most people will ever get. And when we all get to heaven, we do want it to look a little bit like heaven.

  He descends the few stairs that lead down from the throne.

  I was so worried about you.

  Really?

  Don’t ever run away from me again.

  I didn’t think I was safe with you.

  Well, we have a mutual interest in your safety now, don’t we?

  He reaches out to touch her belly.

  She bats his hand away. Maternal instinct.

  He smiles.

  Why do I have to learn about these things from other people, Grace? It leads to all sorts of misunderstandings. But you should have known I’d never let a grandchild of mine come to harm. Whatever his provenance.

  He reaches out. Grazes her cheek with a knuckle.

  She flinches. Can’t help it.

  But she hates that she flinches.

  His hand flush on her cheek now.

  Welcome home.

  Brushes a curl back from her forehead.

  His knuckle on her skin.

  Her skin against his knuckle.

  She knows that touch.

  As real as real.

  Milgram developed the technology. He was convinced there was a way to make off-body even better.

  When you tap in, you’re in a computer construct. Could be open to anyone, could be limited access, or could be something private by request. You might go in alone, you might bring a few friends who tap in by your invitation. Medieval feast, a sultan’s harem, Old West cathouse, whatever. But everything else besides you in that world, the horses, the harem girls, the frontier whores, the beds, the feast, the clothes, the props, they’re all part of the construct. Just the computer filling in the blanks.

  Take the farmboys back at the country church. Me, Harrow, Simon, Mark, we’re all people, comatose in our beds somewhere. The farmboys were computer code. Just part of the program, like the pews.

  So if a farmboy hits me, I feel pain, because I’m a real person. And if I hit a farmboy, the punch feels plenty real to me, but the farmboy only simulates a pain reaction. It’s the computer’s best guess at pain.

  The best guess, for most people, is convincing enough.

  But not for everyone.

  Mina spits on her laptop.

  Cheap Chinese piece of shit.

  Mark’s eyes jitterbug under his lids, like they’re searching for the exit.

  Margo can’t tell if he’s dreaming or drowning.

  I thought you said you piggyback people all the time.

  Not all the time. Sometimes.

  So what’s the problem?

  There’s no problem.

  Margo stubs out her butt.

  I’m bringing him up.

  Give me a second.

  Both bony hands now free of the keyboard, Mina clutches instead at her wild witch’s nest of black hair.

  Goddammit. Where are you?

  I thought he was riding in with her? You know, like a skateboarder grabbing a bus? That’s what you said, right?

  Yes.

  So where is he?

  I think he let go of the bus.

  There is a certain kind of off-body customer who wants to, say, humiliate someone sexually. Harbors a dark rape fantasy. Fuck you with a knife to your throat, get off on your screams, that kind of shit. Fear and pain as aphrodisiacs. Brands, whips, blades, etcetera. If you can think it, someone’s already thought it and done it. And someone else watched it. And someone else heard about it and wanted to go and do likewise.

  In fact, one of the whispered selling points of the limnosphere, at first, was that it would let people like that burn off that sick energy. At first.

  Problem is, to that kind of person, the computer’s best guess was never quite good enough.

  So that was the first thing Milgram figured out.

  The other thing he figured out was something no one else had thought of. Or if they’d thought it, they didn’t put it into practice. They didn’t dare.

  He figured out that it makes a difference to have a real person on the other end. A real person reacting to you. Giving you feedback.

  Take Mary and Magdalene, the church twins. The heart of Harrow’s big demonstration. The first one, Mary, was just the computer’s idea of a girl. The computer’s idea of a downy cheek. The computer’s idea of a blush.

  The second one, Magdalene, was a real girl, tapped into a bed somewhere, feeling everything on the other end. Reacting to my touch.

  So, too, was my wife. My Stella.

  Someone was playing her part.

  Feeling my hands on her face somewhere.

  Feeling my kiss.

  It’s the only way to make it feel that real.

  So what Milgram figured out was that you can tap people in, doesn’t matter who they are, what they look like out here, once they’re off-body you can basically pour them into an empty vessel in the construct, use them as you will. And once they’re tapped in, they’re prisoners. They can’t tap out and they can’t control or even interact with the construct. They just provide the feedback. The emotional underpinnings to the simulation. Give it that extra juice that only comes from real pleasure. Or real pain.

  Bigger market for that second one, it turns out.

  That was Milgram’
s innovation. New wine, old bottles, that sort of thing, except in this case, it’s the other way around. Old wine. New bottles.

  Bottles made to be broken.

  So what you do is, you conjure up a made-to-order nightmare. Then cast these people as unwitting extras.

  Or, in some cases, as the star.

  Rachel was a star.

  Milgram’s tour is done. Now we’re just waiting.

  Milgram tries to grin, winces, bobs on the balls of his feet. Like we’re two businessmen at a convention, waiting for an elevator.

  I pipe up.

  I want to see him.

  He should be with us momentarily.

  No. I want to see him now. See that he’s actually here.

  But he’s in his bed. He won’t want to be disturbed.

  Don’t worry. I won’t wake him up. Scout’s honor.

  Milgram glances at his farmboys.

  All right. Follow me.

  Nods his head at Farmboy Number One. The frisky one.

  You too.

  And he leads us both to the back of the bank.

  To the vault.

  What do you want from me?

  I want you to come home.

  Why would I do that?

  Because it’s where you belong.

  They stroll a golden path together through the garden in the courtyard, enfolded in birdsong and blossoms. An impossible breeze, originating nowhere, ripples the emerald grass. Blades sway.

  But you hurt me.

  I punished you. I’m your father. That’s what fathers do. They punish. Because they love you. No matter what you’ve done.

  I thought that was God’s job.

  Which part?

  The punishment. And the love.

  Father. God. At some point, Grace, we’re really saying the same thing.

  They only tapped Rachel out because someone had heard about her.

  Requested her.

  Her reactions were said to be extraordinarily—what’s the word.

  Nuanced.

  She was suddenly in high demand.

  An out-of-state donor wanted a test-drive. Called and talked to Harrow personally. Harrow explained he would arrange to tap in the donor and put Rachel at his disposal.

  But the donor wanted to meet her. Just for a moment. Out here.

  In the flesh.

  Call me old-fashioned, he’d said.

  Harrow outlined the risks of bringing someone back. Of bringing her back. If she spoke a word of what she’d seen to anyone.

  The donor reminded Harrow that he had been habitually generous to Crystal Corral. Then he offered to up the donation. Treble it. He was one of Harrow’s closest associates.

  The Deacons’ Circle, Harrow called them.

  They had a special room, special black paycards, special beds.

  Special requests.

  So, against his better judgment, Harrow agreed. Arranged the meeting. Set a time. Had Rachel tapped out and sent to the infirmary. Under medication. Under restraints. Under watch.

  But the donor’s private jet was delayed an hour on the tarmac. Stranded by a sudden thunderstorm.

  Just long enough for Rachel to get word out to Grace.

  Plane grounded. Donor fuming. Storm pounding.

  The bright sky furious.

  A violent squall that just seemed to blow up out of nowhere.

  Act of God, all the weathermen said.

  The vault stands open. The door is three feet thick.

  Inside, a high-end bed.

  In the bed, a body.

  Wears a suit, like he’s been dressed for the occasion by an undertaker.

  Silky white hair in a halo around his pale skull.

  Gauges gauge. Monitors beep. Respirator hisses.

  Milgram dismisses the nurse with a nod. She leaves to linger just outside the vault doorway.

  We stand around the bed, me, Milgram, and the farmboy.

  Three wise men at the manger.

  Harrow’s body seems deflated. Each breath an awful rasp.

  So delicate-looking I feel like he might crumble if you touched him.

  He is an old man, after all.

  Made older by all his dreaming.

  In Chinatown, needles wobble. A steady beep becomes a frantic SOS.

  Margo frowns.

  I don’t like this. We should wake him up.

  Mina waves her off.

  If you do, she’ll be left in there alone.

  She’s in there alone now. And from what I’ve heard about her, I get the feeling she can take care of herself.

  No. Not in there.

  Mark jerks.

  We have to wake him.

  We can’t.

  Do it.

  I said I can’t.

  Why not?

  I have to find him first.

  The three other farmboys slowly drift within spitting distance of the open vault. Just to remind me they’re there.

  The frisky farmboy stands guard inside the doorway.

  Looks impatient for the breaking-things to start.

  He shoots a glance at Milgram.

  Milgram sends back a tight little smile, like a telegram that reads, You’ll get your turn. Stop.

  I make small talk.

  So where’s your friend? The Magician?

  Simon? He’s in there too.

  Where’s his bed?

  He’s in a separate location. Security protocol. Pastor Harrow never goes off-body unescorted.

  That’s not what we talked about. She wanted to meet with her father alone.

  This is just a formality. Don’t worry. They’ll all be back soon. How close is she? Bodily, I mean?

  She’s close.

  And you have people with her? To bring her here?

  Yes. And don’t forget the motorman.

  No, of course not. You see, Mr Spademan? There are other ways to resolve things that don’t involve spilling blood.

  Sure. Or, at least not ours. Right?

  He squints. Nods. Tries to laugh like he’s in on the joke. A reaction he must have seen somewhere and sporadically tries to re-create.

  Grace, you remember Simon.

  Simon joins them on the golden path.

  Hadn’t been there a moment before.

  Now you don’t see him, now you do.

  Harrow turns to her and grips her shoulders, like he’s sending her off on a dangerous but necessary journey.

  I’m so glad to have you back, Grace. But actions have consequences, my love.

  Simon slips behind her. Grabs her arms from behind.

  Her father consoles her.

  Just remember, nothing that happens in here can hurt you. Not really. Not in heaven. No matter how real it may seem.

  Harrow seems to pause for a second, as though searching for a thought, the addled mind of an old man, not what it used to be, but that’s not it at all, in fact he’s only shifting his weight slightly, and curling his gnarled wounded bird of a hand into an even more gnarled fist, which he sends with all his heaven-assisted fury into the soft center of Grace’s babyswollen belly.

  She cries out.

  A cry that carries across pastures, statues, fountains.

  A cry seeded, like a storm cloud, with sobs.

  Harrow leans in to whisper. Sweet intimacy in her ear.

  Don’t worry. He’s fine.

  Then straightens himself. Laurel wreath askew.

  I have a strong feeling it’s a he.

  Uncurls his hand.

  Grace, why did you think you could hide him from me? For whatsoever you have, I gave unto you. And whatsoever I gave, I can take away. So sayeth the Lord.

  No Bible verse she ever learned.

  He nods to Simon.

  Now, I’m going to leave you two alone for awhile.

  Her short sobs betray her. She struggles to swallow them.

  Dad, wait. Don’t. Wait. Dad, don’t you remember the story of the Prodigal Daughter? The story you taught me when I was a girl? How she
returns home and all is forgiven?

  Oh Grace. Of course I do. But you know me. I’ve always been more of an Old Testament man at heart.

  I ask Milgram, because I’m genuinely curious.

  You ever go off-body? Visit heaven? That you created?

  Me? No. Unlike many people, I still feel that there’s value in the physical world. That it is a blessing to have a body. I believe that’s as God intended it.

  Me too.

  To retreat to some dream, it’s wickedness. A temptation. To embrace the spectral world. And the people who flock to it—well, they seek easy escapes. It’s a weakness. Pastor Harrow doesn’t see it that way, of course. But to me, bodies are glorious. To be alive is glorious. That is the gift from God. To turn your back on that—

  Yes, it’s true. Bodies are glorious.

  I check my watch.

  Milgram frowns.

  Do you have somewhere to be?

  No. Just something to do.

  He glances at the farmboy, who takes a half-step toward me.

  I ignore him. Stare down Milgram.

  I’ve always had one question about bodies though. A question for God, I guess.

  Really? What is that? Perhaps I can help you.

  Why exactly did He make them so fragile?

  Go easy on her, Simon. She is my daughter, after all.

  Simon steps around her, then turns sharply to Harrow, like a soldier about to salute.

  Reaches up with both hands and grabs Harrow’s face.

  Kisses him on the cheek.

  Then steps back and snaps his fingers.

  Presto.

  A silver coin.

  A trick.

  Simon shows it to Harrow. Then palms it.

  Snaps again.

  Another coin.

  He holds them both out, one in each palm.

  Then brings his hands together.

  Shakes them. Coins rattle.

  Reproduce.

  He opens his hands to show Harrow the bounty.

  Thirty silver pieces in all.

  So here’s the thing about a box-cutter blade.

  You can take it out of the box-cutter.

  The blade itself is very thin, like a razor blade, only longer. And it’s flat enough to, say, tape to the inside of your forearm.

  Or on your chest, under your shirt, over your heart.

  Frisk-proof.

  I work on the farmboy first. The frisky one.