The Pedestal

by Daniel Wimberley

  Arthur, who became a father to me when life deprived me of a more legitimate one.

  My buddy Art, who used to have me over for dinner every Thursday night, until his wife Mitzy became concerned that I’d never learn to be independent.

  Art, the worst poker player in the world.

  Arthur, my colleague who went out on a limb to get me hired on at IDS when my résumé wasn’t quite up to snuff.

  Arthur, the stranger who apparently decided his monthly credits weren’t enough and got himself mixed up in something ugly.

  Arthur—my best friend, to whom my last words—something stupid and wasteful, like Be back soon, Art. Don’t bother flashing the nurses, they’ve seen it all before—were hopelessly inadequate.

  I begin to cry, as much in anger as grief. It doesn’t take much effort to dream up a target deserving of my rage. Mitzy left Arthur a couple of years ago. Last I heard, she was living off her alimony with some bum, slurping Mai Tais on the beach and snorkeling over the Great California Reef. I hear it’s something to behold, and it makes me sick that Mitzy is experiencing it when her ex-husband—whose credits she is shamelessly burning through—will never get a chance.

  Other than me, Arthur has no one; he may be a longtime darling of the rockstar technological community, but like many brilliant men, he’s armed with the social prowess of a cinder block. Few have been diligent enough to wade past the awkwardness, and though I sometimes feel elite to the point of snootiness for being among them, that charm has now completely lost its luster.

  I suppose that’s only part of why I’m angry right now. Perhaps more than anything else, it hurts that Arthur has kept me in the dark. Because I—like him—have few people in my life. And of that few, I trusted Arthur exclusively and wholeheartedly. My best friend may have kept secrets from me, but I have never dreamed of keeping one from him.

  I hear a faint shuffling behind me and turn to find a short, plump doctor there. I’m momentarily stunned by his oblong physique—not that there’s anything wrong with plumpness, it’s just not something you see every day. The night-burner in our implants zaps surplus calories by default, after all. I don’t think it does much for me, but only because skinniness is already in my genes.

  “Sorry about that,” the doctor says. I cock my head slightly at this; I’m not sure if he’s apologizing for startling me, his obesity or for the state of neglect his hospital has left Arthur in. If he’s referring to the latter, I sincerely hope he’s prepared to do better than that. “We weren’t sure who to notify,” he explains, as if that should clear up the whole matter.

  I clear my throat, giving him a moment to recant this ridiculous statement. Just underneath the awkwardness, I feel our implants shake hands, buffering my periphery with a few megabytes of useless trivia—am I honestly the only one who truly doesn’t care to know everything about every person I encounter? I purge my buffer without a second thought. The rotund doctor merely smiles grimly and shrugs. He must know how stupid he sounds—I mean, how is it possible to not know—especially given Arthur’s prominence? It crosses my mind that perhaps Arthur’s celebrity loses steam outside of techie circles, but in any case—ignorance is no excuse. There are laboratory animals capable of learning what this hospital is apparently too lazy to bother with.

  I guess my expression is sufficiently dubious—and perhaps something a little more alarming—because the doctor takes a half-step back. I feel something dark stir within me at the sight of this; I suppose it strikes me as an admission of guilt, and that only validates my sense of indirect victimhood.

  “Exactly how long has he been left here?” I ask. “Like this, I mean.” My words are sharp and overannunciated; I hardly recognize the exaggerated timbre of my voice. I feel my NanoPrint send out the shut-up juice and for a moment, I’m disturbed by my rudeness. I look again at Arthur, though, and I feel instantly vindicated.

  “An hour, give or take,” says the doctor. “I understand he was already deceased when he was admitted this morning.”

  He’s covering his butt, and I guess I can’t really blame him for leaping to the defensive. I nod, not at all to let him off the hook, but because I sense that my emotions are getting the better of me, and I don’t trust myself to speak just now. What he’s said is true, after all. When I arrived this morning—only minutes after Arthur—the ER staff had just resuscitated my friend. They were coldly unoptimistic about his chances, explaining it had been more than twenty minutes since his heart stopped, according to his implant. Knowing little about modern medicine, I found some false encouragement in their successful resuscitation. Later, I learned that Arthur’s implant was electronically stimulating a heartbeat and that no measurable brain activity was responsible. Eventually, his implant would give up and power down.

  And that would be that.

  Nevertheless, and despite everything I’ve been told, I unconsciously clung to some vaporous hope for a miracle. It was stupid of me. But honestly, what else could I do?

  “Listen, Mister—?”

  “Abby,” I say with annunciation that can only be described as something resembling a feline spit. “Wilson Abby.” Check your stupid proximity sensor, jerk.

  “Right. Mr. Abby, my name is Dr. Philip Seymore.”

  I nod, but make no move to shake his hand.

  “I wonder, Mr. Abby, if you have any idea how we can reach his next of kin? We really need to make arrangements before the state takes possession of his body.”

  I give him a blank stare. “You mean other than the freaking nexus directory?” I’m doing the best I can to keep a lid on my snippiness—because for all my grief and indignation, I understand that my flesh is crying out for an excuse to lash out—but this guy’s really going out of his way to make himself a target.

  Seriously: next of kin? C’mon, you couldn’t hide that information if you tried. You gotta be limping along with a broken helix to miss it.

  Again—laboratory animals, people.

  “Yes, well, that’s proven to be surprisingly problematic,” the doctor says. His voice is slightly aflutter with what might be nerves, or—more preferably—shame for making such an idiotic statement and keeping a straight face. Whatever the case, I feel a little guilty—and a tinge proud, if I’m being completely honest—to be the source of it. It’s never been in my nature to be hateful, so I’m appropriately appalled at my behavior. Yet somehow, I feel liberated by it.

  Huh. Being a jerk isn’t supposed to feel this good, is it?

  Well, while I’m at it, would it be petty of me to mention that this poor excuse for a physician has one of those stupid little moustaches? I suppose in the right context, the right sort of guy might just pull one off—a millionaire playboy, perhaps; Dr. Seymore is most certainly not the right sort of guy. Not only is he freakishly plump, he’s uncomfortably asymmetrical, out of square in a way that flesh was never intended to be. It’s like he’s been cobbled together from bits of genetic leftovers. Based on these inadequacies, it seems logical that his brain has suffered similarly, in which case I should probably have some sympathy.

  Despite my mental tantrum, I wisely hold my tongue. I realize that regaining even that small bit of decorum is a victory. I choose to take credit for this over the fresh rush of chemical influence coursing through my veins.

  Dr. Seymore has a uniquely vulnerable quality; I get the sense he’s both accustomed to insult and completely unprepared for it. Which seems to beg the question: what’s with the look? I mean, when you think about it, it would take a fair amount of effort to circumvent your night-burner; it’s a native NanoPrint function, which excludes it from the scope of user preferences, so you couldn’t disable it casually. And the moustache?

  As I ponder this, I begin to wonder if the doctor and his deceased patient might have been chummy under better circumstances; perhaps they shared an equally yoked distaste for society’s predications for unnaturally prolonging life.

  >>Silly Wilson ... you’re the best kisser in the whole w
orld, but did you mean to say ‘society’s unnatural predilections’?

  Oh, um, she’s just kidding. About the kissing, I mean. Pardon me for a moment.

  _open NanoPrint admin

  _config nexus attributes

  _modify globals

  ... Modifying nexus globals is highly discouraged. Erroneous configuration may result in unpleasantness such as poor connectivity or physical death. Are you sure you want to proceed?

  _confirm;

  _open global preferences;

  _disable NanoPrint digital assistant;

  Marilyn slides into retinal view and gives me an angry pout at full, scornful opacity.

  >>Well, somebody’s being a crank fuddy-duddy.

  Sorry, Marilyn.

  _apply settings;

  ... Configuration saved.

  _exit;

  Marilyn gives me a rueful sigh and a great, invisible wind billows her white skirt around little hands that only just protect her modesty. With an indignant Hmph! she blows off my retinas like a deflating balloon.

  Where was I? I’ve lost my train of thought, but fortunately, Dr. Seymore is right here to keep me on track with another brilliant witticism. “You see, Mr. Billings left us no medical records or living will, and there’s a small problem with his NanoPrint.”

  I breathe a deep, therapeutic sigh through my nose and project a flat smile. A security guard appears at the door and begins to hover patiently. A moment later, when he’s joined by another, my eyes begin to narrow suspiciously. “Okay, I’ll bite. What sort of problem?”

  Dr. Seymore looks me sharply in the eyes, sustaining the glance as if it might say something all on its own—although exactly what is beyond me—and shifts his attention to the officers at the door. For a split second he seems frightfully uncomfortable. I guess I can understand, even if I can’t personally relate; getting the dress-down in front of a corpse probably hasn’t been the highlight of his day. Then again, I’m not exactly having the best of days either.

  Then, just when I’ve begun to think he has forgotten about me altogether, the doctor opens his funny moustached mouth to speak, and the words that come out plunge into my chest like little auditory fingers, squeezing the breath from my lungs with flesh-like dexterity.

  “Well, I guess there’s no easy way to say this, Mr. Abby, so I’ll just say it. It’s gone. His implant has been, uh ... well, somebody removed it.”

  At once, I understand with horror why Art was left uncovered, why hospital security is waiting to pounce on this room as soon as I depart it. Looking once more upon Arthur’s inanimate body, my inner lens starts to come into sharper focus.

  Good Lord, this isn’t merely Arthur’s deathbed—it’s a crime scene.

  I push past Keisha—dang it, Keith—and into the racks. The whine of servers and auxiliary fans is so intense here that most don’t dare venture inside without hearing protection. Actually, on most days, I’m quite careful to heed this precaution—it’s been somewhat of a belabored point at IDS since one of our interns sued us a few years ago, back before it occurred to us to mandate the use of earplugs.

  Under the circumstances, a little hearing loss is the least of my concerns.

  I make a beeline to the back wall, where Ryan and Tim—our resident server and database gurus—are locked in heated debate over nonsense.

  “There’s no way Telia is hotter than Gillian—she’s got a crank third arm!”

  “I’m not talking about on the show, idiot. I’m talking about in real life. Besides, you’re not considering the potential of a third arm, Ryan.”

  “Ugh! You’re a lonely man, Tim. A sad, lonely man who needs a pet. And a therapist. A three-armed therapist with a license to lobotomize.”

  “I’m lonely? The last time you went on a date ... wait, I’m sorry—have you ever been on a date?”

  Tim’s wearing a t-shirt that says, “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful; hate me because I’m smarter than you,” and I almost crack a smile. On any other day, you know?

  I wait patiently for a polite break-in, but their volley is as fluid as it is juvenile. I realize a few minutes in that my presence is somehow prolonging their exchange rather than drawing it to a close—I’ve given no sign of amusement, but apparently they consider a bored audience to be better than none at all. At four minutes and twenty seconds, I can wait no longer.

  “Listen up, guys,” I bark. The whining of fans is already rousing a headache. “We have a big problem.” The banter falters; they both look at me with deadpan eyes and—as if sharing one brain—ask in unison, “Where’re your earplugs?”

  Ignoring the jab, I hastily explain the mystery surrounding Arthur as they listen with mouths round and agape—they’re like kids hearing their first ghost story. And believe me: in our industry, that’s exactly what this is.

  When I’ve finished, they whip into immediate action. For a solid half hour, they bounce from console to console, consulting our numerous nexus access portals in a blur. Finally, exchanging a glance of grudging defeat, they face me in tandem.

  “He’s gone, Wil,” Ryan confirms. “Completely gone. No GPS coordinates, no electro-magnetic proximity signature. No transaction history. No daygrid. No update log. Nothing.”

  “It’s like he never existed,” Tim adds with a scowl.

  I’m bewildered, and don’t mind showing it in front of these cranks—they’re used to dealing with dimwits; actually, I think that’s what they prefer. “How is that even possible?”

  Tim passes Ryan a sidelong glance, as if requesting permission. Ryan responds with a weak shrug. Tim looks back at me and clears his throat.

  “In theory? It’s not. You couldn’t destroy a NanoPrint if you tried—corpses from seventy years ago are still online.”

  “What about dodgers?” I ask. “They don’t even have implants, do they?”

  Ryan shakes his head. “That’s not how it works, Wil. Having your implant removed doesn’t take it offline. It may power down, but it’s always threaded in the system.”

  “Besides,” Tim adds, “dodgers usually have their implants hacked to maintain functionality. It takes a special kind of person to really go off the grid, you know? Dodgers usually just want a little more privacy.”

  “Oh,” I say, deflated.

  We stand there in silence for a few seconds—well, we didn’t speak; there is, of course, no such thing as silence in the racks. Ryan makes a sudden whistling sound between his teeth, which peters out into a clicking of his tongue. “You know ...” he intones, as if dangling a bit of candy to a child. Tim and I both peer at him plaintively, hopefully.

  Ryan smiles—one of those thin, crooked smirks that he must know annoys the pee out of everyone—and pauses for effect. My eardrums are beginning to smart, so I’d just as soon dispense with all the drama.

  “Spit it out, man!” growls Tim.

  Yeah, what he said! I add with an exasperated tossing of my hands.

  “I’m just saying,” Ryan explains reasonably, “I mean—it isn’t technically possible for a NanoPrint signal to disappear. As long as ...”

  Until 2086, the capital of Florida was ... anyone? Anyone?

  Tim’s eyebrows slowly rise, scrunching his forehead into an epiphany of skin rolls. He gets it now, even if I don’t. I clear my throat—my own dramatic contribution—which is only just audible above the noise. Turning to me, Tim blessedly completes the fragment of thought that I’ve proven incapable of completing on my own.

  “As long as it’s still on the planet.”

  I’ve been knocking on Uncle Stewart’s door for a while now with no response. He isn’t in the best of health these days. Now, I’ll grant that he’s pretty spry for a man in his seventies, but he’s been coughing lately. A lot, in fact. It’s hard enough to keep from dwelling on the looming of his eightieth birthday, when his NanoPrint will automatically shut him down. Lately, I’m not sure he’ll make it that long.

  I happen to know that Stew never enabled medical moni
toring on his implant. It’s a shame he and Arthur never got along; they certainly had that in common. I’ve tried more times than I can count to steer the old man toward reason. He isn’t just stubborn; he’s utterly incorrigible.

  My knocking crescendos into pounding, fueled by a lifetime of abandonment issues. Behind the panic, I’m acutely aware that I’ve begun to draw some unwanted attention from the neighbors. But some things justify extraordinary behavior—like the idea that my uncle Stewart is lying in the throes of death, helpless to let me in. I’m on the verge of kicking the door in when a shuttle lowers in front of the building. Uncle Stewart steps out of it and, spying me on his doorstep, shakes his head with mild irritation.

  “Don’t you ever read your updates?” he grumbles. “I ran out of Earl Grey.”

  Oh, Stewart. Blessed Stewart.

  I don’t, incidentally. If I had my druthers, I’d delete my NanoPrint updates out of hand—and Uncle Stewart knows that perhaps better than anyone. They remind me that my every moment is theoretically mapped out before me—whether I like it or not—and I hate that.

  “Sorry, Stew,” I wheeze, rushing him on the sidewalk with an uncharacteristic bear hug. I’m so relieved my eyes are stinging.

  If there’s a god out there, thank you.

  We sip our weekly cup of tea—decaf for Stewart, since he’s an old fogey and has probably been ready to hit the sack since noon. He’s already heard about Arthur, who he’s known vicariously through me for many years, but never really clicked with in person. I want to tell him about the list and Arthur’s missing NanoPrint, but I suppress this urge. The last thing I want is to worry Stewart unnecessarily with such things. He’s the type of person who cares too much to be an idle listener.

  Once, when I told him that Keith had me working mandatory overtime while another programmer was on an unplanned vacation, Stewart actually stopped by IDS to tell Keith what a miserable boss he was; I barely intercepted him at the elevators in time—ten seconds later and I’d be painting office buildings and hanging my hat in the ghetto stacks. Another thing: he’s always trying to get me to eat when I’ve already eaten—You’re too skinny; a boy your age shouldn’t be so skinny—as if he doesn’t share a skinny gene with me. Come to think of it, I don’t think he’s ever let me out of his apartment without a piece of fruit for the road. I don’t have the heart to tell him that I usually toss them without taking a single bite.