Wetware

by Craig Nova

  CHAPTER 15

  Midnight, April 16, 2029

  BLAINE SAT up at night, a phone on the table next to him, and when he looked at it, the clear, plastic instrument appeared like all the malignant and contrary things that defied him and that he didn’t understand. Why, in God’s name, wouldn’t it ring? Kay said she would call, and now he was left like this. He rubbed a hand over his cheeks, feeling the stubble on his face, which just reminded him of how he was getting older. If he had any sense at all, he would realize that this was his last chance, and if he wasn’t smart enough to take it, why, then he deserved what he would get. And what, thought Blaine as he looked into the shadows of his study, was that? More of this silence. He stood with his head cocked, listening to it, and it seemed to him to have a hissing quality, as though he could hear the searing, frying quality of his isolation and his loneliness. The more he heard this background noise, or imagined that it was a noise, the more he found himself staring at the phone. He told himself he wasn’t panicky. Not really.

  He recalled Kay’s warmth when she had taken off some of her clothes and had him lie down with her. Now, as he stood in his library, like some ridiculous imitation of the man he used to be, he imagined that this heat had some other quality, a mellowness or soothing quality. It was like hot perfume. Not just temperature, but something else, too. He thought that he should have kissed her when he had the chance, touched her, put his hand against her back or side, pulled her against him. But she had been so certain about wanting to rest. And what did Blaine know about women? Had she wanted him to be more direct, more persuasive? Maybe he had failed with her, too.

  He sat down and stared into the distance, and when he answered the phone and heard her voice, the sensation of it changed the room completely: the silence vanished, not just the lack of noise, but the bleak implications of it.

  “Hi,” she said. “It’s me.”

  “Kay,” he said. “My God. Where are you?”

  “Out for a walk,” she said. “I’m not waking you up, am I?”

  He shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “Where are you?”

  “Not far,” she said. “At the telephone at the end of the street. Would you like to meet me?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Wait. I’ll be there.”

  He was wearing his slippers, and as he kicked them off, he thought what a fuddy-duddy man he had become, sitting in his library with his slippers on his ugly feet. How could he have let this happen? As he pulled on his shoes, forgetting his socks, her voice seemed to linger in his ear like the buzz of an insect on a summer day. And as he waited for the elevator, not even bothering to take his coat, he realized the difference between the time he had been waiting for her and now: one was a matter of being only partially alive and the other was a vitality that can only be experienced by a man who has lived for a long time and been disappointed.

  She was waiting at the end of the street, her hands in the pockets of her trench coat. Beyond her was a small park in which a path wound through some grass and trees, the benches along it sitting in pools of luminescence from the street lamps that were spaced every fifty feet. Blaine was shivering when he came up to her.

  “Hi,” she said. She looked away. “I’ve been thinking about you.”

  “Oh, Kay, me too,” he said.

  “I want to tell you something,” she said.

  “What?” said Blaine.

  “Come into the park,” she said. “Let’s walk together. Here. Let me take your arm.”

  Blaine instantly felt the warmth of her as she slipped her hand under his arm and pulled him against her. The scent of her hair rose toward him. Blaine closed his eyes.

  “You’re cold,” she said.

  “Not anymore,” he said. “I’m fine.”

  They walked along. She put her head against his shoulder.

  “I keep thinking about you,” she said. “About the touch of you against my skin. I can hardly sleep. But that’s just desire. There’s more than that at stake here.”

  “Yes,” said Blaine. “I know.”

  “It’s that I don’t feel quite myself anymore,” she said, looking up at him. “Do you know what I mean?”

  “I do,” said Blaine. “I can’t sleep. I can’t think.”

  “How can that be?” she said.

  “I don’t know,” said Blaine.

  “But I want you to know you’ve got me, that is, if you want me,” she said.

  He started shivering again.

  “Here,” she said. “Let’s sit down. I’m so tired, just thinking about it.”

  They sat on the park bench, and she leaned against him. She moved her head from side to side, as though trying to find a way to get closer. In front of them, the fog drifted by in long shreds of mist, not so much ominous as vaguely false, like something you might see in a theater. Kay put her fingers inside the front of his shirt and ran them along his chest. The tips of them were warm and gentle. She reached up and kissed him on the cheek, the neck.

  “You see,” she said. “It’s not just desire, although there is plenty of that. I am thinking of dropping everything, of letting go. Of coming to you just the way I am or the way I always wanted to be. So, it is not just a matter of climbing into your bed. I just want to be certain of you. All right?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “And you will do the same?” she said. “You will make the same commitment?”

  “I’ve already made it,” he said. “I can’t think of anything else.”

  “I just wanted to make sure,” she said.

  Her fingers worked further down, along his stomach.

  “So, you will wait a little longer?” she said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  She put her lips against his ear and spoke in warm, hot puffs. “You won’t regret it. Oh, I can promise you that.”

  “Would you like to come home now?” he said.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m dying to come. I can’t think of anything else. But, I just wanted to be sure I wasn’t going to be lost, or used, or that you were insincere.”

  “Oh, no,” said Blaine. “No.”

  She nodded.

  “All right,” she said. “Let’s sit here for a minute. Then I’ll walk up the block with you and say good night. But soon, I’ll bring my things. I’ll bring them to your apartment. Is that all right?”

  “Of course,” said Blaine.

  “And you won’t change your mind?” she said. “You won’t discard me when I have given everything?”

  “No,” said Blaine.

  “I’ve been such a fool,” she said. “How could I have wasted so much time?”

  “I know,” said Blaine. “I couldn’t see it until now.”

  CHAPTER 16

  April 17, 2029

  BRIGGS RECOGNIZED the handwriting immediately, and when he opened the envelope he found the promotional gimmick. It was pink and green, like leaves in springtime, and the touch of it suggested the succulent texture of new growth. The thing was supposed to be a key chain, and it looked like ordinary promotional junk. The come-on was that you could take it to a gaming parlor, and, without charge, you could have a look around in the world of the game that was being promoted. If you wanted to play, or to investigate further, you could get a discount for the first couple of sessions.

  Briggs stood in the street in front of the gaming parlor with the promotional gimmick in his hand, and as he looked around, he thought, Will I be able to resist her?

  A ship’s bell hung just inside the door, and it gave the place a little atmosphere, as though this were a gentleman’s club from decades ago.

  “Can I help you?” said the attendant at the door.

  “I’d like to try this out,” said Briggs.

  He held up the matchbook-sized object.

  “Over there,” said the attendant.

  He pointed at one of the booths near the front of the parlor.

  “A lot of people like it,” he said.

&n
bsp; An introductory look at a game only used a cuff, like the ones that were used to take blood pressure. Briggs put the key into a slot, and then his arm into the cuff. It grasped him with a firmness that surprised him; its speed and strength suggested a trap being sprung. The registration began, once and then again, the cool chill on his arm occurring twice, as though the machine were trying to be sure about something. He pulled the curtain of the cubicle shut, and then lay back on the sofa and closed his eyes.

  It was like falling asleep. But as he relaxed, the sensation grew, not like a dream, but like waking up. He heard a man swearing in the main room, but the sound diminished. He breathed deeply. The chill washed over his arm.

  Pacifica XII took place on an island in the south seas. He guessed it was one of the extreme adventure series and that it would involve the basics: typhoons, natives who were cannibals, the Robinson Crusoe routine, sharks in the water, pirates, native women, and so on. The beach appeared to him as a long stretch of sand, and the edge of it, where the waves washed up and slipped away, looked like a mirrored plane, although in the distance the gray mirror disappeared in the shimmer of heat, the wet sheen of it blending perfectly with the liquid and mercury-like mirage. He could see, in this fluid heat, the reflection of someone, the gentle swaying of hips matching the undulation of the heat. Whoever it was appeared to be waist-deep in the heat, and as Briggs stood there, his hand over his brow, the image went across the sand and into the jungle. He turned that way too.

  The jungle was like a wall of leaves, and the shadows underneath them appeared in shades of green on green. He saw little stars in the shade, which he supposed was an aftereffect of the bright light on the beach. The sand squeaked under his feet as he hurried into the green shade, where orchids hung in scarlet and white chains, the petals open and wet. Above him a parrot preened, its blue and red feathers opening like a hand of cards. The jungle buzzed around him, a million insects at work. A moth with pink wings hung on a trunk, and some red ants made a chain into the heart of a flower, which was filled with a sweet fluid. It was cool here, out of the sun, as refreshing as walking into a florist’s cold chest. Butterflies floated here and there like blue checks. Water formed bright pendants, the color of mercury, as it dripped.

  Kay stood behind a screen of ferns, the fronds of which opened like a fan. Behind her a cascade of orchids hung from the vegetation, the vermilion petals fitting together like the scales in an armored suit. Briggs reached out to push the fronds aside, like green jalousies, but they wouldn’t budge until she stepped back.

  “This way,” she said.

  He stepped into the place where she had stood. The light on the floor of the jungle lay like scattered pieces of a green and gold jigsaw puzzle. The light flickered over her back and head as she went, although after she had gone a few steps she stopped.

  “What are these flowers?” she asked. “Are they orchids? Phalaenopsis? Is that the variety?”

  “What?” he said.

  “Sweet Memory. Isn’t that Deventeriana X violacea? A hybrid.”

  “Yes. I think that’s the variety,” he said.

  “You didn’t think I knew that, did you?” she said.

  He swallowed.

  “No,” he said.

  He looked around. The shades of green, one on top of another, seemed to pile up with an endless sense of variety. And depth. He swallowed. The leaves were shiny, firm, and when he tried to push them away to touch her, he found that he couldn’t. When his finger was just a fraction of an inch away, it stopped: he guessed this was the limit of the promotion. He knew one thing for sure: he had lost control.

  “Don’t look so surprised,” she said.

  “How did you know that?” he said.

  “Oh,” she said. “I know you. It’s why I love you so. You are like an open book to me.”

  He looked right at her.

  “For instance,” she said. “Who are you worried about?”

  “A man,” said Briggs.

  “What’s his name?” she said.

  “Krupp,” he said. “He works at Galapagos. He’s someone to worry about.”

  She shrugged.

  “You want me to take care of the problem?” she said. “I’m good at that kind of thing.”

  She smiled.

  “Kay,” he said. “Look . . . ”

  “Darling,” she said. “Do you think I could stand by while someone did something to you?”

  “Kay,” he said.

  “The heat is so brutal,” she said. “Come over here.”

  She went through the leaves, the petals of the orchids breaking away and falling in a mass, like butterflies all landing at the same moment. The trees rose above her hundreds of feet, and at their bottom the trunks had enormous supports, like rocket fins, to keep them upright. Parrots preened and screeched.

  The house she went into had a thatched roof and a veranda and it had been built at the edge of a small clearing. The interior shade was a brownish green. In the main room he saw a bed with mosquito netting, which she pushed aside and climbed under. She was wearing Spandex shorts and a T-shirt.

  She put her head on a pillow and pulled the netting shut. He sat next to her and looked through the sheer netting at the shape of the veins in her skin, the angle of her hip as she tried to get comfortable. Outside, in the jungle, he heard the buzzing of the insects. From time to time a bird screeched, not plaintive so much as imploring, as though its voice weren’t responding to fear, but to desire.

  She put her hand to her head.

  “I’ve wanted to see you,” she said. “I even took a chance coming to your apartment. That was stupid.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I knew you had been there, though.”

  “How did you know?” she said.

  “I could tell,” he said.

  He put his hand against the sheer netting, but he couldn’t get any closer.

  “Has anyone around you gotten sick?” said Briggs.

  She looked at him through the netting.

  “No,” she said.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Come on. Don’t be that way,” she said. “You’ve got to trust me. That’s all I’m asking for. Is that such a big thing?”

  He went on looking at her. What was hidden in that glance, in that flirtatious smile?

  “I just need a little time,” she said.

  “What’s it for?” he said.

  “Oh, I’ve got a little chore to do,” she said.

  “Like what?” he said.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” she said, turning a full, pink-lipped smile on him. Then she put her lips against the netting, the threads crossing them in squares. “Put your lips close,” she said.

  “Look,” he said.

  “No,” she said. “Trust me. When I’m done, I’ll find you. Isn’t that enough? Do you think a promise from me is worthless?”

  In the air around them, a mosquito flew through a series of figureeights. It made a slight buzzing too. The lazy and repeated pattern the insect described almost put Briggs to sleep, and when he lowered his eyes he found that she was looking into them.

  “Well?” she said. “Do you think I don’t keep my word?”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he said. “I don’t know what you’re planning, what you are thinking of, what you want . . . ”

  “Now you are asking me to be indiscreet, too,” she said. “Oh, I wouldn’t do that. Put your ear against the netting here. Right there . . . I want to tell you what I have been dreaming of.” She whispered, the words coming through the netting in small puffs. “And you didn’t think I could bitch you up, did you?”

  “What is the chore?” he said.

  Through the netting he saw her skin flush, the anger coming over her with a sudden, pink tint.

  She sat up and put her mouth against the netting. “You know what I think? Bravery has a practical benefit,” she said. “It keeps you from dying like some sniveling coward. See?”

&nb
sp; Briggs waited, watching her.

  She sighed and looked around. Just like that, the anger vanished. She kept her eyes on his as she spoke. What wouldn’t she do to make sure he cared for her in the same way she cared for him? It wasn’t physical so much as a way of finding access to how they both felt: what she wanted was a trance, a buzzing communion that revealed how much they were perfect for one another. As she spoke the same words over and over, they were like liturgical phrases. Briggs could almost see a figure swaying back and forth in the incense smoke and golden highlights of a church or shrine, the words repeated until their meaning had been absorbed in the hypnosis of faith. That is how she felt about him. Did he understand?

  She pulled off her T-shirt, the muscles along her stomach contracting as she did so. The Spandex of her shorts made a little tearing sound as she pulled them off.

  “It’s so hot,” she said.

  She put a pillow under her head.

  “Will you take me out for ice cream?” she said. “I want to go out in the heat of the afternoon and eat vanilla ice cream.”

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s make a date.”

  She smiled.

  “Oh,” she said. “You think you are clever, don’t you?” She smiled. “I’ll contact you.”

  “Kay,” he said. “I’ll worry about Krupp. Leave him to me.”

  She winked.

  “Are you going to let me love you or not?” she said.

  The parrots squawked outside, and in the distance he heard the sound of the surf, the susurrus of it adding to the languid nature of the heat and the afternoon.

  Kay turned on her side and slept. He sat next to the netting and watched the expansion of her ribs, the way the muscles stretched over them, the line of small bones that ran down the middle of her back, the shape of one hip, tilted, as she lay on the thin, tropical mattress. She murmured in her sleep, and rolled over, one arm falling languidly over her head. Outside, in the sunlight, bits of insects, nothing more than golden filaments, moved through the air.