Theory of Bastards

by Audrey Schulman

  A roach must have gotten into the water department’s computers. She’d heard of this happening in Singapore. The roach made the software think the water pressure in the main pipes was falling. In response the system cranked the pressure up higher and higher, trying to compensate, until pipes started exploding across the city and a human stepped in to shut the system down.

  The scene now showed the poly-roach expert who’d been interviewed yesterday, the one who looked a bit like a groundhog. He was speaking intently into the camera.

  She bustled into motion, nailing the second bag in place below the first and stepping back to see the effect.

  The right half of the video was now projected on the two bags. Against the dark plastic, only a shimmer of reflected light was visible, a sense of flickering movement, of something alive and struggling.

  The left half of the broadcast however was still clear. The visual had changed from the programmer’s face to an animation of a poly-roach: the roach constructed out of computer code, thousands of lines of text scrolling across its wings and legs.

  The roach scuttled forward, its wings morphing into all sorts of weapons—wood spears and stone axes and arrows—charging directly at something moving on the garbage-bag side of the screen. Whatever the thing was, it was sprinting just as quickly at the roach.

  The two hit, the strength of the collision spinning both of them for a moment onto the left side of the screen.

  It was another roach, the same size.

  Of course. The roaches were everywhere and tried to infiltrate anything made of code. Sooner or later, sheer probability decreed that two roaches would attack each other.

  These two were struggling, shifting, their wings morphing into crossbows and battering rams and catapults. Learning new tricks from one another, they increased the rate of their own innovations—Colt 45s and sticks of dynamite and missiles—each innovation spurring on the next, the increase in speed not linear but geometric, almost faster than the eye could see. Both of them pressed in, hungry for the kill, their limbs a blur of evolving power—mushroom clouds and drones—erasing all space between them, until . . . they simply absorbed each other. Merged into a single roach.

  That roach stood there, motionless but breathing.

  Bigger than before. More powerful. Now opalescent.

  Its eyes opened. Data shimmered across its pupils. These eyes focused on the viewer.

  The scene cut back to the human expert. He was talking into the camera, his hands extended as though he wanted to grab hold of the viewer, shake the person into understanding.

  Frankie looked down at her hands holding the other two garbage bags and then back up at the screen. E-musement used fear to get people hooked.

  She hammered in the other two garbage bags, covering up the rest of the broadcast.

  *

  For several months, the Foundation had been a finalist for a large grant from the National Science Foundation—their proposed program to increase public understanding in Kansas City of the basic principles of evolution. As soon as Frankie had agreed to work at the Foundation, Bellows had sent a note to the NSF committee informing them she’d joined his team. He included her resume and a press packet.

  Today Bellows sent an announcement to all Foundation staff that they’d won the grant. He added that the award notification had included a personal note from the chair of the committee mentioning he was a fan of Frankie’s work. The grant was big enough to keep operations going for two years without additional lay-offs and without selling any of the apes.

  Throughout the morning, different Foundation employees kept walking up to Frankie. Each person told her thank you, grabbing her hand and pumping it up and down, as grateful as if Frankie had written the grant request herself. Some woman who worked with the orangutans pulled her into an emotional hug, rocking her back and forth, while whispering, Thank you Thank you. Frankie extricated herself as quickly as she could.

  In response, she texted Bellows saying he’d better fix the cameras in the enclosure or she’d notify the NSF committee she was leaving. An hour later, Frankie spotted a repair crew hustling toward the office of the Foundation.

  Bellows had a large bouquet of flowers delivered to her apartment door. She didn’t bother to unwrap it, so the plastic-wrapped bundle sat on the table where she’d dropped it, wilting in size over the next few days.

  *

  Recovering, Frankie was able to sleep more deeply now, even when she napped on the uncomfortable couch in Stotts’ office. One morning she woke to find Tess sitting at the desk, busy drawing. Her face was lit by the Moments cube, as though she’d been summoned by the images of herself. In comparison to the vivid hi-res photos, she looked small and somewhat faded.

  Frankie inhaled and began the process of sitting up, first rolling onto her side, then getting her hands under her.

  Tess looked up, watching. She asked, You sick?

  Frankie paused. She’d thought she was doing well enough by now to appear just tired. She said yes, then pushed herself up into a sitting position.

  Tess clambered down from the chair. There was the small thump of her feet on the floor, then she stepped out around the corner of the desk. She had a preschooler’s tippie-toe walk, the law of gravity not yet applicable. Her eyes serious.

  She asked, Is it a booboo?

  From the Moments, her face was so familiar yet unknown, like meeting a famous person.

  Frankie answered, No.

  Tess stepped in close, no sense of personal space. She rested her hand on Frankie’s knee and asked, Is it azz-ma?

  She pronounced the word with concentration, almost two separate words.

  No, said Frankie. (Here was one small thing to be grateful for, that by the time her disease started, she was old enough to pronounce its name.) The girl’s hand was warm.

  Tess spotted the embroidered gecko on Frankie’s sleeve and pressed her stomach against Frankie’s leg to reach it, running her fingers over the smooth threads, her breath audible through her mouth, a tiny machine. Each motion of her fingers considered and precise.

  Tess said, I don’t like azz-ma. It hurts.

  Frankie held her breath, very still, as though a bird had landed on her knee. She said, I have a different type of booboo.

  Tess looked from the gecko to Frankie.

  Frankie said, It’s like asthma in that it hurts inside and slows me down.

  At these words, Tess’s hand stopped. The two of them stared into each other’s faces.

  They could hear Stotts now walking back up the hall from the bathroom.

  Frankie found herself speaking low and serious, looking into the girl’s eyes. She said, Whenever you have problems breathing, imagine me standing in front of you. Take your pain and put it in my arms.

  Tess listened.

  Frankie said, I have big arms and know how to hold it tight. I’m used to it. I’ll take it all away. You won’t feel it anymore.

  Tess listened with her whole body.

  Frankie whispered, When you have problems, imagine me. Watch me carry the pain away. I’ll help.

  Then Stotts stepped in and they moved back from each other, instinctively keeping this secret. He eyed them, suspicious.

  *

  The self-driving car pulled up in front of her to drive her to the supermarket. Frankie had been in college when self-driving cars became widely available—the lack of steering wheel and brake startling, no physical mechanism with which to control the vehicle, only a dashboard with a gleaming display showing miles-per-gallon and estimated arrival time. Such implicit trust. The ads however pointed out the spacious interior, how it was possible to work or nap instead of steering, how blind people and children could finally chauffeur themselves. Also the car could hurtle along at 90 miles per hour while the windshield played movies or displayed the passing cobblestone streets of an
cient Rome or the arching trees of a national forest, hiding all unpleasant scenery.

  As soon as the selfer’s door clicked open for her, Frankie heard the broadcast blaring: paid content discussing the absorption rates of different paper towels.

  Stepping into the car she said, Ok Selfer, take me to the nearest supermarket and turn off the E-musement.

  The car’s voice repeated the destination, closed and locked the doors before smoothly accelerating, but the broadcast stayed on, now playing a show’s theme music.

  Ok Car, she repeated, Turn off the E-musement.

  The audio stayed on. The music finished and the host welcomed the listeners back to his show. The rich baritone of his voice and the enjoyment with which he rolled his words made it obvious he didn’t have a strict allegiance to journalistic integrity. At least there was no visual on the windshield.

  Frankie tried her own device, Ok Bindi, turn off the selfer’s audio.

  The host said he was taking calls about the recent stories of Ruminant Flu being spread via Chinese take-out.

  Her Bindi responded with soothing authority, Unable to turn off the audio.

  The host said, Let’s welcome our first caller. Sarah from North Adams, you’re on the air.

  Frankie asked, Why not?

  Her Bindi answered, Unable to determine that.

  Sarah said, Last week I got real sick after eating at the Lucky Noodle.

  Frankie asked, Version incompatibility?

  Her Bindi responded, Unable to determine that.

  Frankie put music on her EarDrums but could still hear the show in the background. She really needed to replace her implant so it was more up to date. These incompatibilities were happening more frequently.

  The selfer pulled up in front of the supermarket, automatically deducting payment from her Bindi. The transaction completed in a millisecond, the selfer and her EarDrums beeping in accord. At least in terms of payment, the manufacturers made sure there was never any difficulty with version differences. It was only the actual applications that gradually became impossible to control.

  For the slower comprehension of the human, the car’s speakers repeated the payment in English, the voice as condescending as a preschool teacher’s. Frankie got out of the vehicle and closed the door. It hummed as it drove itself away, the audio still blaring.

  DAY 11

  Sixteen

  Frankie woke in the middle of the night. The dream still floating in front of her, the vision: a pink inflated female balloon, steaming with fecundity.

  Hot, she said.

  The resting temperature of the female body increased during ovulation, the temperature of the reproductive area going up the most—at least a degree Fahrenheit in most primates.

  Pleased with her idea, she slept soundly until seven. During breakfast, she found a thermal app and downloaded it onto her Lenses. When she turned the app on, she could see temperature rather than light. Heat was visible as brilliant oranges and yellows, cold as deep blues and purples. A psychedelic kaleidoscope of temperature. Lucy in the Sky with a Thermometer. In the center of her vision were crosshairs. Next to the crosshairs, the temperature of that object was displayed in Fahrenheit.

  Looking down at her hand, she could see her palm was two degrees warmer than the fingertips.

  She grunted with satisfaction.

  However, once she got to the viewing area in front of the enclosure, she found the app couldn’t see through the plexiglass. The surface became a mirror that reflected the warmth of the objects near it. The glass showed herself scowling, an orange monster with purple hair.

  She turned off the thermal app and examined the enclosure, searching for some spot where she could watch the bonobos without glass between her and them. After a moment, she moved into the building and headed for the balcony, the one that the keeper fed the bonobos from.

  Unfortunately as soon as she stepped onto the balcony, the bonobos turned to face her, curious. This meant of course she couldn’t see their sexual swellings to get a temperature reading. Even when the bonobos saw she had no food, they still took a seat, waiting for her to entertain them. She figured they’d get up and wander around soon, but as the minutes passed, they just sat, watching, moving only to scratch a shoulder or cuddle in against one another.

  So she sat down as well and leaned back against the wall, turning the thermal app off—its psychedelic colors disorienting.

  Each time a female bonobo stood up, Frankie would say, Ok Bindi, thermal app on.

  At her voice, the bonobo would sit right back down. They were patient creatures, the perfect audience, waiting for such long periods of time that inevitably she’d turn the app off again and they’d chirp to one another in appreciation of the show.

  After an hour of this, she noticed that whenever she turned the app back on, a single percent sign appeared in the lower corner of her screen. Off to the side, away from the other readouts of temperature, distance and emissivity, this percent sign flickered on and off. She wondered what it signaled.

  The tourists arrived at nine A.M. Each time a group—a family or a couple or a crowd of students—walked into the viewing area, it was obvious when any of them spotted Frankie inside the enclosure. The person’s head would jump and he or she would point her out to other people in the group, sometimes even to strangers. All of them standing there, ignoring the bonobos to stare at her.

  About 10 A.M., the keeper stepped out into the enclosure through the door below the balcony, to pick up the food the bonobos hadn’t eaten for breakfast. There seemed to be a lot remaining, lying on the ground everywhere.

  Frankie was tired of waiting. She leaned over the balcony and waved her arms at the keeper, calling out, Helloooo.

  The woman had her head down shoveling the uneaten fruit into a bag, so Frankie had to keep calling until Mama caught the keeper’s eye and flicked her gaze up toward Frankie.

  The keeper turned to look, then paused, absorbing Frankie sitting up there.

  Frankie said, How do I get them to turn around?

  The keeper squinted, watching her mouth.

  Frankie tried to make her mouth movements distinct, I need to see the sexual swellings. To do that, I need to get the females to stand up and turn around. How do I do that?

  The keeper snorted and answered, Your problem.

  The keeper turned away, then paused and looked back. Her expression this time was calculating. She said, I’ll get them to turn around for you, but it’ll cost you 15 pounds of mangos.

  At the word mangos, several bonobos peeped, looking from the keeper to Frankie and back.

  The keeper said, You get the mangos delivered to the kitchen by 7 A.M. tomorrow.

  The bonobos rustled and looked to Frankie for her response, focusing the way kids will when parents discuss the possibility of dessert.

  Frankie examined the fruit lying in the sun. She asked, Why? They aren’t even eating the food they have.

  The keeper said, It’s not real fruit. It’s printed.

  What?

  3-D printed.

  Nooooo.

  The keeper said, The price jumped again. Bellows thinks they’ll get used to it. It has all their vitamins injected. He says it’s better for them.

  What about that NSF grant? He can afford real fruit.

  Check hasn’t arrived yet. Can you buy the mangos?

  The bonobos chirped back and forth.

  Frankie eyed the keeper and said, Of course. The food will be here tomorrow. Can you help me now?

  The keeper said, There’s a pineapple cut up on the kitchen counter. Grab it. I’ll get them to do what you want.

  At these words, the bonobos reached for each other and the orgy started. Down in the kitchen, Frankie found the pineapple slices and scooped them into a bowl, the sweet scent of fruit. Turning away, she spotted on the other
counter a plate of mango slices and was reaching for that too when she noticed that each slice was identical: same size, color and shape. Picking one up, Frankie sniffed it. Instead of the sweet scent of mango, there were only the overtones of printer cartridge. The piece of fruit sat in her hand as bland and practical as an eraser. She put it down and backed away.

  By the time Frankie had returned to the balcony, the bonobos were cuddled together, happy. They looked from the fruit in Frankie’s hand to the keeper.

  The keeper grunted at Mama and made a series of signs. Her hands moved with confidence, tiny cheerleaders bouncing through their routine, occasionally slapping into one another.

  The avatar appeared on the plexiglass to translate, Turn around so the woman sees your butt. Then she will give you fruit.

  Mama looked from the keeper to Frankie. Her brows raised with surprise, she signed, Fruit fruit?

  The keeper nodded.

  Mama turned around immediately to show Frankie her butt.

  Frankie read the temperature of her sexual swelling—98.3°—and threw her a slice of pineapple.

  The rest of them gaped at this, then copied eagerly, twisting around to wiggle their butts back and forth, the males included.

  Frankie read the temperature of the females, one by one—98.5°, 98.2°, 98.3°—throwing each a slice as she got their temperature. Stella’s temperature was 99.4°, a degree higher than the average.

  Frankie said, Jackpot.

  Just before she turned off the thermal app, she noticed the percent sign was still there in the corner, pulsing.

  *

  Back when Frankie had been starting her Ph.D., evolutionary psychologists were focused on female mating choices, trying to figure out the reason for what appeared to be some of the more illogical preferences.

  For instance, human females around the world preferred a mate with a strong jawline: the jutting chin of Dick Tracy. Researchers spent years studying this aesthetic caprice, searching for its benefit, before learning a bulging male jawline was associated with a high level of testosterone during adolescence. Elevated testosterone was hard on the body (only a teenage male in good health could tolerate it), but the increased level led to higher sperm counts as an adult. Thus, for a woman, a man’s lantern jaw meant there was more of a chance of many children, all of whom were healthy.