The Umpire Has No Clothes

by Walter Witty

  “Blabbing?”

  At the next turn we narrowly missed locking bumpers with a bus, and this time Darryl shouted: “Holy shit, man! Talk to me. Come on—get whatever it is off your chest before my heart stops beating.”

  I gripped the steering wheel tightly, coming to my senses just as a lady, pushing a baby stroller ahead, crossed the street opposite the Olive Garden restaurant. I swerved to the side of the road, hit the brake, and we slid to a stop. The engine coughed in protest at the abuse as I cut off the ignition, and for a moment Darryl studied me in silence like one might a wounded animal.

  “Sorry,” I apologized.

  “You in trouble?” he asked me.

  “We all are,” I replied.

  “The company?”

  “Them too. Depends.”

  “Depends on what?”

  “On who stole the research data, and why. My assistant . . . he had such high hopes for what we were both doing. And he could have used the bonus, if we’d succeeded, that’s true. But was that a reason to do this? If he did what they say he did, it was reckless, not like him at all. Jim, Jim, Jim . . .”

  “Jim what? And when exactly did this happen?”

  “Just before the break-in took place. He injected himself, or somebody injected him.”

  “And he’s not a suspect on the theft?”

  “No, he’s dead.”

  Darryl touched his forehead, his hand hovering there as if taking his own temperature. Finally, he said, “I’m sorry, but if you can’t talk about it . . .”

  I looked over at the small city park where the woman wearing a blue jumpsuit now wheeled her baby. The span of green grass and oak trees was scarcely a hundred yards long, like an oasis amid the commercial traffic and pace of downtown Alexandria. The woman took the right fork on the circling sidewalk, toward the fountain and away from a homeless man asleep on the bench to the left.

  “Did I tell you much about the bristlecone pine gene?” I asked.

  “What? No, you didn’t. Not . . . specifically.”

  “Well, we were searching for a delivery mechanism to test it on a unique worm that has at least half of the genes humans carry. This worm is used in a lot of research projects—and even by NASA—for this reason. Anyway, the longevity effects of this tree needed to be tested, and while my partner worked on finding a virus to carry the gene into other plant species, I got lucky in finding the perfect medium that could efficiently carry the gene into the cells of an animal species.”

  “And what was that?” Darryl wondered aloud, despite himself.

  “Can’t tell you unless you promise to keep it secret.”

  “Cross my heart, hope I don’t die too.”

  “Meaning we never talked, right?”

  “When do we ever talk? I mean, really.”

  I sighed. “Okay. But I could lose my job, what there’s left of it, if you let it slip.” I paused, studying his blank expression. Then I said it, letting it slip myself, like I’d let almost everything slip. “It was HIV.”

  “What?”

  “The AIDS virus. Only genetically modified to make it harmless.”

  “You’re not kidding.”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

  “And a lab tech shot himself up with that? What happened to him?”

  “It was . . . kinda violent.”

  “What was the cause of death?”

  “Suicide,” I said, then, “but you mean the underlying cause. That’s part speculation, at this point. From what I’ve heard, I’d guess inflammation of the brain, linked to a severe interferon reaction to the altered virus. Apparently the bristlecone gene and the virus affected each other in a way I didn’t anticipate. Like A and B equaling C, and the sum being more than the parts. All the time I was thinking of the virus merely as a transport device for the gene, and had no idea it would co-opt something by way of symbiosis from it. After today, though, I can see that the way they fit together so perfectly should have alerted me. But I had no idea Jim Baxter would do what he did, with human trials still unimaginably distant. He was working on his own parallel project. A plant virus, the tobacco etch. While trying to make either of our viruses survive in solution, for ingestion without need of injection.”

  “So he killed himself because . . .”

  “Because of the pressure in his head, and the psychotic hallucinations that may have induced.”

  “What you’re saying is that it’s an overnight AIDS death? Not a decade? And all because you attached a tree gene to it?”

  “That’s a rough way of putting it. A modified virus acquired a longevity gene that it attempted to use as a defense mechanism to make up for being neutered.”

  “You’re . . . kidding.”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding? Jim’s body tried using its own natural defense mechanism, but was quickly overwhelmed after the virus didn’t die on its own. Of course I’m just theorizing. We may never know what really happened, now.”

  “I’ll tell you what happened. Your Methuselah gene went to bed with the Devil, and got itself a new lease on life. Namely, death.”

  “How did you know I was calling it Methuselah?”

  Darryl huffed surprise. “You were? Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it? Anyway, it sounds like you created a monster, and then it screwed you in more ways than one.” He stared out the window at a large oak tree rising beside the path in front of us. “How is the news going to cover this story?”

  “With as little information as possible. Tactar is hoping to keep the FDA and the FBI out of the investigation.”

  “So do you think whoever took your stole your research knows the truth? And how do you know Jim didn’t just dispose of everything while under the influence?”

  “I don’t know. I’m told it’s being investigated, including the possibility of murder. They’re saying murder’s unlikely, though, and they won’t tell me why.”

  “Which is why they reassigned you, hoping it all blows over?”

  I nodded once, then stopped myself. “Only thing, our project was canceled before Jim died, which is curious to me.”

  “How so?”

  “There’s just something about the timing. Who knew what, and when. Industrial espionage is big in our industry, as you might know. But then again, the results for our project just weren’t panning out, either. Instead of prolonging life in the worms we tested, if anything it decreased their life spans.”

  Darryl tapped his chin, still staring up at the oak tree. “Well, ya know, if you could figure out how to stop this death wish your gene’s now whispering, and just keep the shortened lifespan, you’d have more than just a Satan bug.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Think about it. A virus that doesn’t kill you or affect you in any other way except to shorten your lifespan by ten or twenty years. Bingo, population problems solved.”

  “But that’s the exact opposite of what I was trying to do.”

  “Hey, you said A and B equals God knows what. Reversals happen all the time with aberrant cells, from what I hear. Look at cancer. Isn’t that a genetic disease where cells that are supposed to die acquire immortality instead, and start multiplying?”

  “Right, the tumor cells develop morbid superpowers by genetic mutation, and somehow survive normal autodestruct mechanisms by manipulating their telomeres, the complexes of DNA and protein that protects the ends of each chromosome.”

  “Well, there you go. Why couldn’t your tree gene be made to manipulate these telomeres in such a way that people age faster than expected?”

  “To what purpose?”

  “To what purpose? Hell, to sell more cosmetics and cosmetic surgeries! And vitamin pills and pricey health foods. You’d become paranoid at age thirty instead of forty or fifty, when your friends start noticing your wrinkles, hair loss, and sagging jowls. Die off younger, and the government saves billions in Medicare, too, for everything from prescription drugs and walkers to the number of people in nursing homes. Young peo
ple wouldn’t have to pay as much in taxes to keep old duffs playing golf while busting Social Security. And you could take the drug yourself, buddy, instead of Elavil, Paxil, or Prozac, so you wouldn’t have to worry about being alone in your long, lonely golden years, obsessing about the best way to end your jittery, angst-ridden life.”

  “Thank God you’re not serious.”

  “Oh, but I am. True, it’d put a new slant on Anthony Robbins seminars, but think about how they could use it in the Third World to curb population growth.”

  “I’m not sure how that would work.”

  “Well, most wars are linked to overpopulation, right? Too many people, not enough food, land? Like on the West Bank, or in the Kasmir region. Got any idea what it’s like there these days in India? A billion Hindu people crowding the streets. Beggars, rickshaws, banana carts . . . scooters belching smoke everywhere. Seventy-two thousand people born every day. That’s the population of Australia every year, buddy. Malnutrition, disease, howling chaos in Delhi’s filthy shanty towns. Opposite of Japan’s problem, or ours. Those people don’t drive SUVs up to take-out windows to supersize everything on the menu, they just eat rice with fish heads while working the jobs we’ve lost to them by outsourcing. And their government can’t control their own growth any more than you could stop some development company from building a new tract of condos blocking your view of the ocean! So you mix whatever drug you develop from this up with the wheat we give’em, and maybe it’ll offset their women having six babies each. Works for African countries and Islamic countries, too. Maybe you’ll avert a future war . . . holy Jihad, another unholy skirmish for crude oil, or whatever.”

  I stared at the homeless man, asleep on the bench. “God, I don’t know which intention is worse for this theft,” I said. “But if either is in my future, maybe I should take your advice and end my ‘jittery, angst-ridden life’ right away.”

  Darryl chuckled, but stopped when I looked at him. We were quiet for a long time before he said, “How did your partner kill himself, by the way—with a gun?”

  “No,” I said, mimicking a gripping gesture with one hand, “he used a broken beer stein. You know, the kind with a handle? He busted it on his head, and sliced one wrist with it before he buried the shards in his neck.”

  Darryl stared at me for ten long seconds before speaking. “Holy horse shit. What was he, psychotic?”

  “Not before he stuck himself with that needle,” I replied. “Or someone else stuck him.”

  2

  My apartment was a mess. Nothing unusual there. Still, it was a familiar mess. One that hadn’t been recently tossed into a different jumble. Of that I was certain. Because if it had, I would have noticed more easily than if everything was tidy.

  I went through all my paperwork, methodically. Finding nothing important amid the notes I’d taken home, I started up my MacBook in frustration. As I prepared to enter my passcode, though, the screen showed a sad icon. I used an emergency CD to restart, only to discover that the MacBook’s hard drive contents had not been inadvertently lost by some electronic glitch, or even via some cataloguing error. It had been wiped. Destroyed. There was little doubt about it. That had to be it. And what else could do it but a—

  Virus.

  The word ballooned in my mind as I glimpsed the photo of Cindy, my internet ‘girlfriend.’ I’d printed out it. It lay next to the mouse. Boo. I stared at Cindyboo’s face—at the beautiful, symmetrical face with its high cheekbones behind perfect skin. That skin deep beauty hid what was actually only a thinly covered skull. And then I thought about Nikki, too. The unfortunate one night stand who’d stolen a jacket of mine, and . . .

  I snatched up the telephone and dialed.

  Darryl answered. “Hello?”

  I heard kitchen sounds in the background. A meal being prepared. Darryl’s wife Hannah singing happily in some far-off state of unattainable marital bliss.

  “It’s me,” I said. “Listen, Darryl—can you come over here? I think I’m in bigger trouble than I thought.”

  I strategically hung up before Darryl could answer, knowing he must have been hungry, having missed lunch due to loss of appetite. Almost unintentionally, then, I found myself getting a beer, turning on the TV, and finally slumping in my usual lounge chair. I drank mechanically while watching a horror movie I’d picked at random from one shelf before shoving it into the DVD player. Ironically, it was Attack of the 50 Foot Woman.

  I was on my third beer when the knock at my door finally came.

  “You’re not planning to off yourself right away, are you, man?” Darryl asked with acerbic candor, stepping into the room. He looked around at my clutter—the scattered papers, and the week’s accumulation of dirty dishes. Then he gave a slight nod as if his suspicions about bachelorhood were confirmed. He followed the nod with a wry smile. “On second thought, maybe you should consider it.” He pointed at my beer. “Got one of them for me? And some chips, maybe?”

  I got Darryl a can of Michelob, and took the last one for myself. I poured out the remaining jumbo sized Fritos into the one clean bowl I had left. “There’s a girl I been talking to on the Internet,” I said, almost casually.

  Darryl snickered as I used remote to cut off the TV. Then he shook his head. “A girl on the net? Wake up and smell the French roast, buddy. I told you, you gotta break outta this jail, find a real woman, and get a life.”

  I studied him, coming to a decision. “I don’t mean that. I meant about the longevity gene. I mean I told her everything.”

  Darryl was suddenly aghast. “What have you been taking? PCP? Your ass is grass, man.”

  “I don’t mean the delivery mechanism, or what happened with Jim,” I insisted. “I didn’t tell her that. But now my notes on the computer, they’ve been wiped. Gone, just like at the office. An electronic virus got me, this time.”

  Darryl rubbed one eye with his free hand, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “What am I gonna do with you, Alan?” he asked, his voice sounding weary. “You keep classified information relating to your work on your home computer? Is that what you do here? What does Jeffers say about that?”

  “I live alone. And no one needs to know.”

  His face went blank for a moment. Then he slurped at his beer, and it reanimated him. “The hell you say. And did you also know that there are ways to read your hard drive when you’re online? Ever heard of electronic cookies? Information is stored all the time on your drive by websites, and by your ISP. They retrieve that information whenever you log on again. Hackers can get to you too, if they want to. They can read what you got, and you wouldn’t even know it.”

  “Most of it is encrypted, though.”

  “You mean was. You haven’t got it anymore, and they do . . . may as well have posted it on WikiLeaks, because if the hacker’s an ace, he’s deciphered your encryption already. Especially if you use DES or some commercially available encryption program.” Darryl burped for emphasis. “So who’s this girl you mentioned?”

  I handed him the photo of Cindy, asserting defensively, “She doesn’t look like a hacker to me.”

  Darryl laughed. “I guess not. I’ve seen her on the cover of a dozen magazines, at least. One of those runway fashion models. Phony as a peroxide blond dating a plastic surgeon.”

  I took the photo back, and stared at it again. Numbly. The face that stared up at me did seem a bit familiar now. I felt a chill edge up my spine to radiate out to my arms. “Holy . . .”

  “Yeah. Holy in-your-lap horse dooty.” Darryl snatched the photo back, then balled and pitched it into the trash. Finally, he sat at my Mac. While munching greedily at the chips, he began to check a few things. After a few belches, he concluded, “One nasty bug, for sure. Almost as bad as your Satan bug. Can’t recover anything on here, bud. Backup?”

  “At work. Gone now. These were mostly notes. May have helped me. Doesn’t matter anymore, does it?”

  Darryl nodded slowly. “Mattered to your supermodel, whoever she rea
lly is. Or he.”

  I winced at the thought, then told him about Nikki, my one-nighter. Darryl was skeptical about her existence, except in my dreams. But when I mentioned that she’d stolen cash from my wallet, he changed his tune.

  “What’d she look like?” he asked.

  “Never mind. More importantly, I’m wondering if she did this, somehow. That next morning I noticed that my computer had been moved slightly, like she’d tested its weight or bulk as a possible theft. But to access it here she’d need my code, and I don’t have that written down anywhere. Could she have hacked into it? Downloaded encrypted files, somehow, all without my hearing anything?”

  “Maybe she carried it somewhere else, like to a van on the street, then returned with it.”

  “No, that’s . . . that’s impossible.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m not even sure about the stupidity of politicians, anymore.”

  “Well, you’re right, it is unlikely. She wouldn’t have risked returning with it, after setting it up as a theft. Did you notice any blank media missing?”

  “No, but what if she brought her own memory stick, along with this virus?”

  Darryl nodded slowly. “Right.”

  I slumped into the nearest chair. “Listen to us. Conspiracy theories. God, I feel like Jesse Ventura, already.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe you deserve that, Alan. What you got now? Constipation? You should take Colace or Duphalac for that. Maybe you shoulda taken Lomotil, too, for your diarrhea of the mouth.”

  “Stop kidding, and help me.”

  Darryl sighed. “I think you’re beyond help, at this point. Tell me, did this Nikki chick approach you, or you her?”

  “The former. Why?”

  “Bad news. And you say you were being followed?”

  “Yeah, I was. By a dark Toyota Land Cruiser. I think I saw it behind us earlier, near the park, too.”

  “Catch a peek at the driver, by chance?”

  “No. Windows tinted.”

  “Virginia plates?”

  “Who knows.”

  “Well, I know why someone thought you’d wanna brag about this, like when some nice looking lady actually smiles at you. Anyway, what else is a guy like you gonna talk about . . . marriage? Sports? Star Trek conventions?”