His phone vibrated and he saw a message from Stan: Carrot and stick from El. Call me.
“Let’s start with the stick” was how Corvallis started the conversation. “I take it you heard from his lawyers?”
“Yes, I did,” Stan said.
“And they are threatening the court order?”
“Not only that,” Stan said, sounding dryly amused, “they are even making noise about criminal proceedings.”
“Are you shitting me?”
“The statutes contain weird old stuff about mistreatment of bodies. Probably written into the law centuries ago to punish people who used to steal bodies and take them to labs for dissection. Strangely enough, what the Forthrasts want to do in this case is to take the body and dissect it in a particular way—”
“With an ion beam.”
“Yeah. Look, don’t take this too seriously. It’s smoke and mirrors. No one is going to end up in jail over this. You have to think of it tactically. Alice and Zula have to make a decision. They’re already stressed out over Jake and his religious take on it. Now El comes in looking for anything he can do to get them further stressed out. Talking about court orders and even filing a criminal complaint. It’s all bullshit.”
“But it works as a stick.”
“Yes. Which brings me to the carrot.”
“Okay. What are they holding out?”
“So far it’s just vague, conciliatory noises. But the point has been raised that it’s all just bits.”
“Once Dodge’s brain has been scanned, you mean.”
“Yeah. The output of that process is some smoke going up the chimney and some data stored in a file. They want a copy of the data.”
“Just a copy.”
“Yes. A nonexclusive license. The Forthrast Family Foundation would be able to keep its own copy and do with it as they please.”
“And then they’ll shut up and leave us alone.”
“If I am reading their strategy correctly, yes.”
“Why is El even bothering with this?” Corvallis asked. “Why doesn’t he use some other brain? Lots of people die, right?”
“Lots of people die,” Stan agreed, “but most of them don’t sign legal documents ordering that their brains should be preserved.”
“But he could find one.”
“Sure. But it’s hard to find one whose estate is rich enough to afford this kind of process.”
“So it’s all about money? Can’t El afford—”
“Remember, the ion-beam scanning facility doesn’t exist yet,” Stan said.
“WABSI only has it working on mouse brains.”
“Yeah, and only in a primitive form. Making the right kind of scanner, capable of doing a whole human brain, is going to cost billions. Not even Elmo Shepherd can afford it. But the combined resources of ELSH, WABSI, and the Forthrast Family Foundation might be able to swing it. And he doesn’t want to be frozen out of that coalition.”
“He has a funny way of showing it.”
“Like it or not,” Stan said, “some people actually do business this way. Like I said: carrot and stick.”
“What do you suggest we do now?”
“Exactly what you are doing,” Stan said. “Remember, the scanner won’t exist for a long time. So that’s plenty of time to consider options, make a decision.”
“Obviously, I’m not going to mention this to the Forthrasts.”
“No. Let them grieve. But do give me a call if they suddenly decide to have him cremated.”
During the phone call, Corvallis’s eyes had been wandering. He had noticed an oddity about the Greek myth book. It looked brand new, but it was defective. Seen edge-on, some of the pages in the front were warped, as if they’d been exposed to moisture. He pulled it toward him. D’Aulaires’ Book of Greek Myths it was called. He opened the front cover and noticed two things. First of all, it had been inscribed.
Sophia,
I hope you’ll enjoy these stories as much as I did when I was your age! If you ever want me to read one to you, just tell your mom to call me.
Love,
Uncle Dodge
Second, there was a leaf—a big maple leaf, fire-engine red—flattened between the front cover and the first page. It was still damp and flexible. Dodge must have put it in there sopping wet, because the surrounding pages had soaked up enough water to pick up the sinusoidal warping that Corvallis had noticed a minute ago. It was obvious to him what had happened: Dodge had picked it up off the sidewalk outside of the medical building just before he had gone in there for the procedure. As a way of preserving it for his niece, he had slipped it under the cover of the book.
He felt shame at having looked in on something that was none of his business. He closed the cover of the book gently and put it back on the table.
Not fifteen minutes later, he heard the front door opening as someone came in from the elevator lobby. Someone who had a key to the apartment, obviously. He tortured himself for a few brief moments with the fantasy that it was Dodge, and that all of this stuff had been some kind of dream or hallucination. But then he heard a high-pitched voice calling, “Uncle Richard? Uncle Richard? Hello! Are you getting better?”
In answer came a much deeper voice, speaking with an Eastern European accent. “Ssh, you mustn’t disturb Uncle Richard, he is sleeping.” This was Csongor, Zula’s husband. “Remember, he is very sick.”
Corvallis understood something suddenly and clearly: this was all a sort of performance that the family was mounting, at great effort and expense, for no one’s benefit but Sophia’s. It was difficult to explain to a girl of her age that her favorite uncle had simply ceased to exist for no apparent reason. A brief, serious illness followed by death: miserable as it was, that was the best story they could come up with. She wasn’t ready to hear the facts of the situation, to understand the idea that a seemingly normal and healthy Uncle Richard was in fact a vegetable with no brain to speak of. They would say that he was sick, that he was sleeping. And in a few days they would break the terrible news to her that he had died. A full explanation of the protocols embedded in the health care directive and the disposition of remains would be many years in coming.
“Hello, Corvallis Kawasaki!” Sophia always addressed him thus, reveling in her ability to pronounce the name. She was a tiny thing, barely coming up to midthigh on her bulky father. Fortunately for her, she was more Zula than Csongor, with glorious curls. The Hungarian blood came through in her eyes, which were pale blue-green with a vaguely Asiatic slant.
Corvallis could not prevent himself from smiling broadly for the first time since all of this had started. “Hello, Sophia!” he said. “How was school today?”
“Fine,” she said, inevitably.
Corvallis and Csongor exchanged nods.
“There they are!” Sophia hollered. She bolted into the room, vaulted up onto the coffee table, and skidded to a halt where she could gaze down on the covers of the books. “Doe-lair’s Book of Greek Myths,” she said, “and Doe-lair’s Book of Norse Myths. My uncle Richard got them for me.” She turned her head and threw Csongor a reproachful look. “Mom and Dad forgot them!”
“Uncle Richard wanted you to have them,” Corvallis said. “He wrote you a note in this one. And left a surprise.”
She grabbed Greek, spun it around, and flipped the cover open. The sudden movement caused the red leaf to lift off the page and become airborne. This surprised her and she fell back on her bottom with an exclamation, and watched it skid to a stop on the surface of the table.
She looked at Corvallis, all serious. “Is that the surprise?”
“Yes.”
“It’s so pretty!” she said.
“Yes, it is.”
“Did he bring me that apple too?”
Corvallis picked up the apple and looked at Csongor, who nodded approval. “Yes, he did,” Corvallis said. “It’s all yours.”
Part 2
9
Over the next three years Nubilant e
xpanded, somewhat jerkily, as its CEO leapt from one funding predicament to the next like a video game character being presented with various contrived, dire challenges. With each round of funding its valuation grew and Corvallis’s theoretical net worth became larger. He began to consider whether it might be time to begin having a social life. He was not quite sure how to go about it. Much of his spare time was devoted to his hobby: the painstaking reenactment, in parks and on beaches around the Pacific Northwest, of the activities of a Roman legion of ancient times. It was an almost exclusively male pursuit, which would have been very convenient if (as rumor apparently had it) he were gay, but he was pretty resolutely heterosexual. When he did engage in normal social activities such as going out to dinner, it tended to be with Csongor, Zula, and Sophia, who had become like family to him. Sometimes, unaccompanied females would be present and Corvallis would become tongue-tied and withdrawn as he realized that Zula was trying to set him up with potential dates. He rationalized his failure to have a social life by saying that he was in “startup mode” and when you were in startup mode, normal rules didn’t apply. There would be plenty of time to sort things out after Failure or Exit, which were the two possible end states for a startup.
Exit—in the sense of suddenly becoming more rich—happened when Nubilant was acquired by Lyke, a Bay Area social media company that was much larger. Lyke had cloud computing systems of its own that were much more capable, by most measures, than Nubilant’s. But thanks to some canny decisions that Corvallis had made, Nubilant happened to be especially good at certain things that had turned out to be important to social media companies and so was doubly desirable—both on its own merits as a company and because of the prestige, and the bragging rights, that came from having snatched it away from the competition. Thus did Corvallis Kawasaki, just short of forty years old, become a centimillionaire. He was now the chief research officer at Lyke, which was a major publicly traded company based in Mountain View. He could easily have retired but chose to stay on because he enjoyed his work and because he felt some loyalty to the team he had recruited and nurtured in Seattle. He purchased fractional ownership of a private jet that he used to fly down the coast every week or so.
He had barely settled into his new life when he was awakened early one morning by the ringtone he had associated with the personal number of his new boss: the CEO of Lyke.
In truth, he had been sleeping somewhat raggedly the last hour or so. He had left his phone on the ground next to him with its screen facing up. As notifications filtered in, the device would turn its screen on, creating a series of false, bluish dawns. He’d been wondering whether it was worth the effort to reach out and flip the phone over facedown, but some deep nerd part of his brain was worried about scratching the screen on a rock. For like all of the other legionaries in the tent, he was sleeping directly on the ground, wrapped in his woolen cloak. He had not actually looked at any of the notifications.
He had configured the phone in such a way that it would only ring under certain rare circumstances, such as a personal call from the CEO. His legion was on maneuvers in the Bitterroot Mountains of western Montana, which it was using as a proxy for the Alps. Use of cell phones and other portable electronics was discouraged during the daytime, and while in character, but was tolerated in private tents, in the hours of darkness, as long as you weren’t too loud.
But waking people up with an early-morning call was bad manners everywhere, and so when it rang, he lashed out and silenced it as quickly as he could.
“Salve,” he croaked into the phone, over the grumbles of his tentmates.
“I need you down here,” said his boss. “All hands on deck.” Then he hung up without explanation, leaving Corvallis with the vague feeling that he was missing something.
“What the fuck, Corvus,” complained a legionary in the next tent. “Mutate.” Moo-TAH-tay. This was bastard Latin, using the imperative conjugation to tell him to mute his phone. “Corvus” was the Latinized version of his name. He turned off the phone’s sound so that it wouldn’t continue to make cute little noises as he went on messing with it.
The trail of notifications on his phone told the story. They had originated from various people on various social networks, but they had all been triggered by the same event: the surprising obliteration of the town of Moab, Utah, by what was apparently a tactical nuclear weapon.
It had occurred before daybreak, at about 5:20 A.M. local time. The earliest postings were from insomniacal passengers and crew on coast-to-coast red-eye flights, reporting a sudden flash so bright it dazzled them from hundreds of miles away. This had faded too rapidly for people to snap pictures of it, but descriptions had been tweeted and Facebooked via the planes’ onboard Wi-Fi systems, and retweeted and reposted a millionfold by the time Corvallis saw them.
One Larry Proctor, a blogger who knew his way around the military and intelligence world (or so it seemed, anyway, based on a quick scan of a blog he’d been maintaining ever since his last tour of duty in Qatar), had picked up some traffic that had leaked to the civilian Internet from a .mil site, making a cryptic reference to a possible radiological event in southeastern Utah. Personnel stationed at nearby military bases were reporting that leaves were being canceled and units being mobilized. All of this was probably supposed to be kept under wraps, but nothing could prevent spouses and teenage kids from chattering about it. Someone in DC posted a snapshot of a pizza delivery guy on a Pentagon-bound Metro train, toting a stack of pizzas so high he had to use a two-wheeled dolly. Self-proclaimed experts in the comment thread were climbing all over one another to explain that massive pizza deliveries to the Pentagon were an infallible sign that something big was happening. A fourteen-year-old Texas girl’s emoji-splattered post, featuring grainy driveway footage of her camouflage-decked mom heaving a duffel bag into the back of a pickup truck and burning rubber down the street, went viral and was shown over and over on network news sites for lack of anything more definite from the actual scene of the disaster. Moab was a long way from anywhere, situated at an X made by the Colorado River and a two-lane highway. No Internet or phone traffic was coming out of it.
Corvallis took all of this in while putting on his caligae, the sandal-like marching boots of the Roman legionary, and pulling his kit together as efficiently as was possible while focusing most of his attention on his phone. He had been sleeping in his linen tunic, overwrapped with his wool cloak. It was cold up here in the mountains and so he pulled the latter garment around him before stepping outside the tent. This weekend’s event was an informal, light-duty sort of affair, family friendly. They’d set up their camp in a meadow, but a phalanx of modern RVs was visible a quarter of a mile down the hill, in a parking lot at the road head. Generators were purring and electric lights shining down there. Corvallis stuffed his gear into his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and trudged down the slope. He smelled bacon cooking in one of the RVs. Through its window he saw a television monitor showing live network coverage—the RV had a satellite dish mounted to its roof. He slowed down and looked in through the window. The video feed was from LAX, where the first of those red-eyes had apparently just landed and disgorged its passengers. News crews were waiting to gang-tackle witnesses as they emerged from security. Most of the people on that flight had slept through the event, and many didn’t want to talk, but one alert fellow—a fashionably scruffy actor who had been flying from New York to L.A. for a job—had seen the flash in the corner of his eye while playing a game on his phone, and switched it over to video camera mode in time to capture the roiling orange mushroom cloud. So the first broadcast video of the destruction of Moab was simply a close-up of this man’s phone, held in his shaking hands. And, as far as it went, it sure enough looked like a mushroom cloud.
Corvallis walked across the parking lot to his Tesla, threw his duffel bag into the trunk, and climbed into the driver’s seat. His phone connected to the car’s onboard systems and the big video screen in the middle of the dashboard
came alive. He dialed the twenty-four-hour hotline for his jet company and told them he needed emergency transportation from Missoula—the nearest town of consequence—to San Jose. They put him on hold. He did a quick scroll through emails and saw a lot of stuff, but nothing that couldn’t wait; the important thing was for him to get on the plane. So he shifted the Tesla into forward driving mode and began gliding silently across the parking lot, headed for the road that would take him down the mountain.
By the time he had reached the highway, the jet dispatcher had come back on the line and let him know that a pilot was en route to Boeing Field. The jet was being fueled. It would be in the air promptly and would probably get to Missoula before Corvallis did.
During the ensuing hour-long drive down the Bitterroot Valley, he mostly resisted the temptation to look at the screen, and instead listened to the radio. This was jammed with emergency coverage, as alarming as it was vague. One would think it would be an easy matter to simply go to Moab and look at it and report back. But all helicopters within an hour’s flying time of ground zero had already been spoken for by mysterious entities, and pilots were being warned not to fly anywhere near Moab for fear of radioactive contamination. Much of the radio coverage simply consisted of reporters summarizing what was turning up on the Miasma. Pictures of military roadblocks were being massively upvoted on discussion forums. Comment-thread geeks were zooming in on details and pegging various items of equipment: radiation detectors, dosimeters, containers of pills you were supposed to swallow in the event of radiation exposure. From time to time they would cut away to the financial desk for a report on the inevitable stock market crash. Trading on the New York Stock Exchange was already suspended for the day. Foreign leaders were expressing grave concern and offering assistance. A jihadist website had apparently posted a video describing the annihilation of Moab as a warning shot, and making it known that they had another such weapon planted in a major American city.
Fall; or, Dodge in Hell Page 11
