Dead Lines, A Novel of Life... After Death

by Greg Bear

  Am I crazy? Peter asked.

  Beyond a doubt, Jessie said, then screwed up her face in disdain. Peter! Come off it. You're not crazy.

  Then what am I?

  People see things all the time.

  I never have, Peter said.

  She shrugged that off. Ghosts of the living are called wraiths. Ghosts of the dead are specters. I wish I could see something. Life is a bore around here. Maybe you can take Gerry and me out to Tiburon. We could hold a sce. On second thought, never mind. Sces are a real bore, and Gerrys an atheist.

  She walked around the counter and gave Peter a quick hug. Now really. Time for you to go. He appraised her bulk through the caftan and wondered about Gerry, trying to picture him.

  As they walked to the door, Peter peeked down the narrow hallway, looking for he knew not what. Residues of bad times, perhaps. Wraiths of Gerry crying out for sympathy. Peter had forgotten how hard it had been, stirring more than just good humor out of Jessie.

  Nothing. The rooms looked clean and good. A quiet, calm life.

  Back at the Porsche, Peter opened the door and climbed behind the wheel.

  Jessie smiled and waved good-bye from the door.

  The Trans pressed against his hip as he buckled himself in.

  CHAPTER 15

  YOU COULDNT SEE most of the old prison from the main approach road. Construction on San Andreas had begun in 1854. The complex had been emptied and decommissioned just two years ago, the stretch of magnificent Bay Area beachfront having long since become worth more to the state as raw land.

  Now, tall, mobile demolition units were pulling or knocking down most of the fortresslike walls, swinging aside huge chunks of concrete and tangles of chain link and barbed wire. To the east, toppled concrete guard towers lay stacked in trios like old cheese logs, cracked and gray, facades of bricks clinging like red mold. Piles of brick and stone and concrete rubble rose in hundred-foot mounds behind construction fencing. Muddy truck-rutted gravel roads crisscrossed a wide stretch of no-mans-land still colored by jagged pentangles of lawn.

  There remained intact the famous North Gate, hallowed in film and TV, with it's huge brick arch. Several slogans had glamorized that dreadful span over the years, including the infamous Pain Is Your Last Constitutional Right. Welcome to San Andreas. There had also been, Don't Give Up Hope. Just Give Up. All the old admonitions had been replaced by a rippling, shiny plastic banner reading HAMPTONS SAN ANDREAS PARK BUSINESS LEASES AVAILABLE.

  The new glassed-in security booth was manned by corporate guards wearing plain black uniforms. They checked his name against the appointment book. You're going to see the Trans boys, the portly, pleasant-faced chief of security mused as he hefted an e-pad. Theyve had folks in and out all day. Busy, busy. Photo ID?

  Peter produced his drivers license and the guard used his pad to scan it from the wallet. He then returned the wallet and vanished back into the booth.

  Peter had nearly gone to prison once. An obscenity trial in Los Angeles in 1973 had ended in a hung jury. Even had he been convicted, Peter would not have ended up in San Andreas. This was the box that had held the twisted hard candies of crime. Scum de la scum, Peter murmured nervously just as the guard emerged from the booth.

  Pardon me? the guard asked.

  Did you work here before? Peter asked.

  Not me, the guard said. Knew some guys who did. Scary. Me, I'm a Libertarian. He gave Peter a small wireless card. You're cleared, Mr. Russell. This is your electronic pass. If you go outside your zone, the card beeps and you show up on our screen here. Then we have to come looking for you. If you lose the pass, you cause all sorts of bother. You're going to the old DP building. He handed Peter a crisp paper map and drew him the way with a marker. Right to the heart of San Andreas. Very exclusive. The guard smiled, showing beautifully even false teeth.

  The gate, an ordinary wooden beam, lifted. Peter entered with just the slightest grind of gears.

  CHAPTER 16

  YOU LOOK SO serious, Weinstein said as he and Peter walked down the long polished concrete floor between the tiers, three stories on each side. Peter was frowning up at the cells. The bars had been removed and workers were now bustling along the walkways, carrying desks and chairs or stringing cables.

  It's a serious-looking place, Peter explained. He did not much like the decor, but Weinstein seemed pleased. Exhausted, but pleased; even a little manic.

  Weinstein stared back at Peter through red-rimmed eyes. We only have a few cubicles in this block, for overflow, you know, he said. We took the pit right out of the peach. Got into this deal early and scored the DP block.

  DP? Peter asked.

  Death Penalty. Dead man walking. The complex right around the gas chamber.

  Whoa, Peter said.

  Out of death comes life, and out of incarceration comes real estate. Both lead to profit. And the ladies adore it. I cannot tell you how many times in the last month . . . He waggled his hand from his wrist.

  Why would you rather be here than, say, Sausalito?

  Therein lies a story, Weinstein said. My office is right ahead. It's pretty close to the old chamber. We have all rights to the chamber, you know.

  Peter did not like the way the walls seemed to close in. Trick of perspective, he decidedor deliberate design. Prisons had been made to punish after all.

  Weinstein went on breathlessly. The chamber has a table in it with straps and tubes, not a chair. Lethal injection. They stopped using gas a long time ago.

  They walked through an open gate of thick bars painted a nasty shade of lime green. This way. Weinstein pointed left, down another, shorter block, where work had progressed to the point that the cells now had glass inserts and Dutch doors. He waved his ID card over a security plate and a latch clicked. He pulled the door open. Welcome to the office of the champion funding guru. That would be me. Thanks of course to you and to Mr. Benoliel.

  The cell was equipped with a desk, a file cabinet, a PC, and a small refrigerator. The walls had been painted a fashionable but neutral gray and sported a white board and a small corkboard covered with file and business cards. Retrofit ducts and cable conduits snaked around the ceiling and floor.

  Telecoms melted down a few years ago. Remember? Weinstein asked with a twitching wink. He opened the refrigerator and offered Peter a Pepsi. Peter popped the top and sat in the chair before the desk, which filled half the cell. The office. WorldCom and some offshoots of Enron and a couple of other biggies were going to transform San Andreas into a huge business park, with condominiums and shops lining the waterfront. Five hundred acres of prime waterfront, can you believe it? Best views in Marin. Anyway, they were in the deal to the tune of five billion dollars when it became obvious that the old prison better suited their CEO needs. Weinstein grinned ferociously and leaned back in the office chair. The feds shut down the whole development. But the prison was theirs to dispose of, and it came with a sweetheart tax offer from Marin, so someone made a quick decision. Whats the difference between Dilbert cubicles and sad harmonicas in the Big House?

  Not much, Peter said.

  Weinstein nodded decisively. A few surviving startups bid for space. Google wanted it, but we got in first. He lifted his Pepsi and toasted Peter. My apologies. It took me far too long to realize that you're the director of Rising Shiner and The Private Lives of Helen and Troy.

  Peter smiled. Old history.

  I love those films. John Waters, eat your heart out. I go to psychotronic festivals whenever I can, which isnt often, lately. What I'm saying is, to the younger generation, you're a legend.

  I didnt know that, Peter said. Nor did he believe it.

  Well, we can play it that way in the trades. Out of the onetime slammer comes a promo campaign headed by Peter Russell, the edgiest sexploitation director ever. Weinsteins face grew serious. And, to be honest, Russ Meyer turned us down. But then he suggested you, one Russell to another.

  Nice of Russ to give me a plug, Peter said. He glanced over hi
s shoulder at the door. The office was remarkably small.

  It was fate. Weinsteins eyes shifted. Cells for the condemned, he said with a barely perceptible shudder. I try to get out whenever I can. A different route, each time, just in case. Weinstein pushed back from the desk. His chair bumped the concrete wall. Needs a few canaries, don't you think?

  Peter chuckled, but there was little real humor in the air.

  Lets go meet our Nicola Tesla, Weinstein said. If you two hit it off, were in clover. By the way, do you have your Trans?

  Peter removed the unit from his coat pocket.

  Weinstein put it in a desk drawer. We don't take them any closer to the transponder than this. Sparks, sort of. Not just energy, either. Information. Weinstein pushed forward another grin, this time excessively wry. Fascinating effects.

  PETER DREW INTO himself as he automatically followed his host down the relentless corridors. Talk of Russ Meyer had taken him back.

  Weinstein led him into a circular cell block, older, fashioned of large ocher bricks. The cells here were larger. They passed row after row of offices occupied by eager young men and women staring at monitors.

  Peter pulled up from his reverie in time to walk through a steel door, into the largest cell he had seen so far: at least nine feet by ten, concrete walls painted pale green and blue, a stylish curved desk covered with printouts and a laptop. No posters or pictures. The abode of a high-tech monk.

  Weinstein introduced him to a large, bearlike man in a golf shirt and black jeans, rising from behind the desk. Peter Russell, meet Arpad Kreisler.

  The bear held out his hand and squeezed hard enough to hurt, but his face was childlike in it's eager friendliness. Pleasure to meet you, Kreisler said with a trace of some Middle European accent. He stood over six feet tall, with large, square features, and broad, stooped shoulders. Stringy black hair hung into deep-set black eyes. The way he stood revealed a casual but awkward strength, and a strangely coltish grace for a man of his imposing size. Stanley tells me you saved our butts.

  Peter looked pleasant and decided he would say as little as possible. He had no idea where he stood here. Seconds passed before he realized they expected a response. Thanks, but I didnt do much, actually. Mrs. Benoliel did the persuading. Sorry to zone out, he added as an afterthought. I havent been sleeping well.

  None of us has been getting much sleep, Kreisler said, his eyes momentarily losing focus. Too much work. But we get the hang. We are adjusting.

  Peter sensed tension, but could not determine what sort: startup tension, brilliance pushed to the limit, or just working too hard and needing a year off. Nothing amiss, he tried to convince himself, ignoring the other voice that insisted he should leave, and sooner rather than later.

  Wonderful opportunity, working with such as you, Kreisler said. Has Stanley told you what we are doing? What Trans does for the communication of the world?

  I left most of that for you, Arpad, Weinstein said. You're the heart and the brains.

  Also kidney and spleen, Kreisler said, deadpan. I used to work for Xerox, they hire me right out of Ukraine, then for Microsoft Research, you know? I am the best. He screwed his finger into his head and winced. But a little cracked.

  Weinstein chuckled. Definitely.

  So I do not handle money or go out in public, Kreisler said, raising his eyebrows to read Peters reaction.

  Peter managed a smile. Maybe you shouldn't tell me too much, he warned. I havent signed a, what is it, an NDA or anything.

  Kreislers grin was wicked. Not a problem, he said. We are a hundred years ahead. We could show you everything and do the math right in front of you, and still you would have nothing.

  Brave New World, Weinstein said.

  We have yet to tell the world how brave it is, Kreisler said. Perhaps you do that for us.

  Peter pulled himself up. Look, Stanley, Arpadit is Arpad, isnt it?

  Kreisler nodded like a child expecting a scolding. We havent talked money, to be sure

  Not at all. I havent made a movie in twenty years. My skills are more Mystery Science Theater than MTV. With Josephs money, you could hire anybody you want. So why me?

  Actually, no, Weinstein said. Weve already spent most of it.

  Bills, Kreisler said, his lip curling and voice deepening in disgust.

  Were looking for someone different, Weinstein said. Honestly. Not retro, but unexpected. Why not sell sexy technology the way you used to sell sex, the old-fashioned way, holding back a little? We have ever so much to hold back, and ever so much to offer. Your techniques are a natural. Compared to Hollywood today, you are innocent. So are we. But were also the real thing. A true whiz-bang.

  Perhaps you are like wide ties and bell-bottoms, Kreisler suggested. You are taken from the closet every thirty years, back in fashion.

  Gee, Arpad, Weinstein said, wagging his finger in warning.

  Peter listened in concerned silence. They would not take no for an answer. There was more here than met the eye. Arpad seemed friendly enough, but Peter was getting cold feetand not just because of the prison atmosphere. He was afraid of falling flat on his face all over again. He could not afford another failure. And for that reason, he was about to screw himself out of a job, if he didnt pull back and think things through. Maybe, he murmured.

  You are not too expensive? Kreisler asked.

  Peter laughed. I doubt it, he said. I need the money and I could certainly use the work. I just want to be truthful.

  Kreisler looked touched. Five years ago, six of our peopleone my wife, beautiful ladywalk away with fifty million dollars. They do us a favorwe are not even a blip when tech stocks and telecoms melt. Two trillion dollars go south, what me worry? But they delay us by years. Not so good after all. Truth is something we honor. I think you are our man, Mr. Russell.

  Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Weinstein said, cupping his hands around his ears.

  I tell you more, Kreisler said, his voice dropping even lower. When Stanley says he meets you, I am thrilled. I use your books to learn to read English when I am young, in Kiev. American TV-show paperbacks. I am a fan. I tell Stanley you are famous. Honor to meet you.

  What did I know? Weinstein confessed.

  Peter crinkled his eyes. Despite himself, he was touched.

  Stanley has told you the basics already, no? Kreisler asked. We are here to solve imminent crisis.

  Amen, save the world and make money doing it, Weinstein said.

  Kreisler smiled indulgently. Three billion people will own wireless phones and computers by year 2030. Houses, cars, refrigerators, televisions, wristwatches, eyeglasses, earrings, all will talk to information centers and receive news, guidance, entertainment, and upgrades for essential services. Companies will sell whole-body sensors that transmit data to doctors and hospitals around the world. No one will ever need to be alone and in danger again. That is what we have been promised. But the truth is much otherwise. In less than twenty years, world will run out of bandwidth. Radio, TV, cell phones, wireless, all will halt screeching growth. He smiled. But worlds problem is solvable. I have solved it.

  Kreisler rose and started to move his arms, slowly at first, then describing large arcs. No need for waves, for radiation. I discover new source of bandwidth, forbidden information channels, not truly radiation at all, unknown until now. Channels in what I call Bell continuum, after John Bell. He is famous physicist. Trans is like the way photons and electrons and atoms, everything tiny, sing to each other all day, every day, tell each other where and who they are, to balance the books and obey the laws and keep everything real. We send our messages along similar channels. That means you can use Trans anywhere. No degradation to huge distance.

  Peters eyes were playing tricks again. Whenever he blinked, he could still see the outlines of the office, the former cell. The new furniture was not there, however: just a bunk, a wall-mounted steel toilet and sink, and a small set of shelvesa prison cell, nothing more. The cell was unoccupied and still, except for an
ankle-deep layer of dust.

  Between blinks, the dust moved.

  In fact, for Trans, Kreisler continued, distance means nothing. Plus, so far as we can measure, our data travels instantly. His voice had risen to dramatic heights. Now it sank to an intimate whisper. From this time forward, nothing is the same.

  Damned right, Weinstein said. Whatever stress they were under, Peter could tell that, for them, Trans was much more than money. It was their meat and drink and religion besides.

  Faster than light? Peter asked, rubbing his hands on his pants. He was going over the edge once again, hiding behind hallucinations, just to avoid that most dreaded F-wordfailure.

  We agree, it may be a philosophical problem, Kreisler said. But that is what we measure. Evidence is everything, no?

  With his eyes closed, Peter saw the cell as if it were drawn in glowing blue ink on black paper. If he kept his eyes closed for more than a secondwhich fortunately the circumstances did not permitthe colors started to shift to the hues of bruised flesh.

  He worked hard to keep listening.

  Like cell phones, Trans units always tie into network. They are always on. What is more remarkable, as they work, they actually change surrounding space, perhaps permanently. They alter information permittivity. Do you know permittivity?

  No, Peter said, then remembered his electrical training from three years in the army. He struggled to fight back, to seem competent and calm. Is that like capacitance? His chest was starting to bind. He wanted to shove his fingers under his ribs, but instead took short breaths. Soon the sweat would start. I am so screwed.

  Yes, but we use term as metaphor, Kreisler said. A capacitor stores up charge. Space stores up information, but over time, it fades, dissipates. When Trans accesses the forbidden channels, she increases spaces permittivity. Information does not fade, but builds up until it jumps like a spark. Sometimes this happens in nature already. As if space has weather, and currents of permittivity sweep past. As Trans units change space, they become more efficient. Eventually, over less than a year, our transponder will carry many, many more signals than now. Billions of units, large and small, will make our communications revolution last forever. Trans for everyone on Earth, no problem. And they will use no more energy than flies buzzing. Perhaps, in time, we even carry power. Trans can do that, you know. Power without physical power lines. An entirely new industry. And we hold all the patents.