by Cody Sisco
Linus said, “So we’re not going to make a buck off the stim addicts filling our streets? Can we at least agree on that?”
Victor looked up, surprised to hear him talk this way. Were they planning to treat stim addicts in SeCa? He stayed quiet, reflecting on how little he knew of the family business. As recently as a few months ago, there was talk of expelling the hopeless cases to other A.U. nations. He wanted to ask about it, but he couldn’t gauge how much of a taboo he’d be breaking. If he said anything unusual, Granma Cynthia might bring up what he’d said to her. He hoped she hadn’t already told his parents. He never should have mentioned murder at a funeral.
Circe raised an eyebrow. “We’re a health care company. We have to respond to the health needs around us.”
Granma Cynthia forked a half globe of yellow tomato. “Could we leave business until after dinner?” She looked at her daughter. “Or perhaps you’d like to go over his will during dessert?”
Circe shook her head, sending her black curls into dizzy vibrations. “I don’t want to upset you. I just want to prepare you. Would you rather read what I say on the Mesh?”
Granma Cynthia ate her tomato and said nothing.
“We need bold moves to maintain HHN’s leadership position,” Circe said. She looked at each Eastmore in turn. Her fork daintily gathered the salad components into a well-balanced bite—the same way she was gathering support from each family member. She would make a good company chief.
She continued, “We can’t rest on our laurels. Father’s image will be exonerated in death, and his illness will underscore the importance of the network’s mission. People will forgive his recent actions, given time.”
Ma hadn’t touched her plate. She stared down at the salad as if she were waiting for it to change into something else. “The public has a long memory.”
“Does it?” Circe responded without a shred of concern in her voice.
Ma asked, “What about the foundation? Is there a way to bring it back under our control?”
Granma Cynthia and Auntie Circe exchanged arch glances. Victor wondered if the foundation was a touchy subject. Or maybe they didn’t want Ma to have a bigger say in the family’s affairs, now that the loudest voice was gone.
“We’ll do what we can,” Granma Cynthia said stiffly. “Mason won’t give it back without a fight.”
They began to discuss what to do about the terriers.
Thinking of the dogs and the mausoleum brought back memories of his granfa’s appearance, which disturbed him all over again. How could the founder of the largest health care corporation in the world have degenerated so quickly? The great Jefferson Eastmore dying of heart failure caused by an infection? He could have gotten a transplant or grown himself a new heart. Yet the family seemed to accept the heart failure explanation all too easily. There must have been more to it.
Victor excused himself, saying he wanted to rest. He shuffled out of the room. His parents let him go. There was nothing surprising about a nap in the midst of dinner.
He climbed the wide, carpeted staircase to the second floor. His granfa’s office was off limits to everyone but Granma Cynthia, and maybe Auntie Circe, but these circumstances were exceptional, and Victor felt justified in snooping.
Still, he should be careful. Victor crept to the balcony. The foyer and sitting room were empty. He hadn’t been followed. A clock below chimed seven. The short winter day had faded into night.
Victor found the door to Granfa’s office closed and locked. He jiggled the knob as quietly as possible, but it didn’t turn. At least it wasn’t a modern reinforced door. He knelt and inspected the lock mechanism, finding a simple spring-tongue and socket.
Wood creaked behind him, and he jolted upright. Looking over his shoulder, he saw nothing amiss. The staff came up to the second floor only when summoned. They would be busy serving dinner. The house must be muttering to itself.
He pulled a Japanese multiknife from his pocket and wedged it into the door gap. The first swipe of the blade failed to dislodge the lock’s spring-tongue. He stuck it in the crevice again and drew it downward, slowly, catching the tongue and easing it back against its spring. He gripped the knob and pushed it forward. The door swung open with a loud, protesting creak.
Inside the room, against one wall, tall bookcases flanked a large oak desk, Granfa Jeff’s workplace when he wasn’t touring Holistic Healing Network offices and facilities. The center of the room held a couch and two high-backed chairs with a low table between them. Off to the side were a reading nook with a stuffed chair and ottoman and more bookcases next to the bay windows overlooking the mansion’s grounds.
Victor stepped to the desk and sat in Granfa Jeff’s large synthleather chair, absently sliding a book on the desk to the side. However, the book’s texture—real leather—caught his attention. He looked more closely, and recognized it as the handwritten compendium of herbal medicine Granfa Jeff had shown to Victor on a foggy summer day just a few months before Oak Knoll had closed.
***
On that day, the old man had seen Victor skulking in the doorway of his office. He sat up in his chair and cleared his throat. “Herbalism!” Granfa Jeff waved Victor inside and jutted his chin toward the leather volume.
Victor approached the desk and opened the book, running his fingers over its stiff yellowed pages, which were covered in blue handwriting that flowed around drawings of plants’ leaves, stems, and roots.
“What’s wrong?” Victor asked.
Granfa Jeff looked out the window and down at a row of sturdy hedges and ground cover that drank moisture from Pacific mists. He said, “Something we haven’t tried yet.”
“Plant medicine?” Victor asked. “That seems odd. Everything useful’s made of synthetic chemicals and bioengineering.”
Granfa Jeff said, “Up until the last hundred years—through the Enlightenment anyway—medicine was practically synonymous with plants. Unfortunately, we don’t know much about older forms of healing, especially those from the East.”
“Can plant medicine, er, herbalism, help me?”
Granfa shook his head. “I don’t want to get your hopes up. It will be years until we figure out any reasonable form of treatment for you. Until then, Personil’s the best we can do. But still . . .” The old man’s gaze returned to the volume in Victor’s hands.
***
Victor heard a soft gasp. He looked up to see his ma in the doorway, holding one hand to her face. Worry lines framed her mouth. “Victor, what are you doing in here?”
“I wanted to be with Granfa.” Victor swept a hand around the empty room.
Her gaze disapproved.
Victor rose and hugged the herbalism book to his chest.
Ma watched him, her brow furrowed.
“I feel like he’s here.” Victor turned away. It wasn’t a total lie, but false enough to make him queasy.
Ma sighed and said, “That’s a normal feeling. You don’t have to be ashamed.”
Fa, cowed by the great Jefferson Eastmore even after the man’s death, called from the hallway: “He shouldn’t be in there.”
Victor shuffled to the couch, set the tome on the coffee table, lay down, and curled up with a pillow. “I just want to nap in here for a while. Could you turn down the light?”
His ma turned and said to his fa, “I don’t see any problem with that.” She sat on the edge of the sofa. “When you get up, if you’re not feeling well enough to drive, Lê Quang can take you to your apartment.”
Victor’s fa said from the threshold, “I’ll ask Chef Meir to make you a snack for later. In case you get hungry.”
“Thank you,” Victor said, letting his head sink into the pillow. He closed his eyes.
His ma squeezed him and then walked away. Her footsteps receded, the lights dimmed, and the door clicked closed. Outside, his parents’ voices thrummed, quiet enough that he couldn’t make out any of their words. When he heard a car rumble in the driveway, he slid to the floor, crept
to the window, and watched his parents drive away.
He found a floor lamp, turned it to half power, and looked around. Something about the desk was wrong. He stepped back, breathed deep, relaxed, and looked again. A MeshTerminal with its vidscreen and type-pad dominated one side. The bust of Admiral Eastmore, his great-granfa, sat at the other corner—
That was it! The bust sat oddly on the desk. Its four-cornered base didn’t rest smoothly. Victor lifted the heavy marble head by its jaw. Beneath it lay a single brass key.
When he tried the key in the lock on the file drawer, it turned and opened smoothly, revealing folders labeled in neat block letters. He skimmed each paper in the folders, hoping to find anything that seemed amiss. Most were account statements and orders relating to the running of the estate.
In the back, a folder without a label held a dozen sheets of paper filled with checkboxes, fill-in-the-blanks, and unruly handwriting.
Victor examined the papers more closely, finding medical reports from Oak Knoll Hospital, doctors’ notes, test results, and prescriptions from the past six months. However, it was only three months ago, after Oak Knoll had closed, that the papers began to contain the words “heart failure.” Three months seemed an inordinate amount of time to obtain a diagnosis, especially when all the best doctors in the nation worked for Granfa Jeff.
He looked through the records again, but nothing else stood out. There must be something, some clue or connection he wasn’t seeing clearly. He needed more facts. Perhaps there were more electronic records. He tried the MeshTerminal, but he could only access his own cache, not Granfa’s.
Victor sat back and cupped his hand around the data egg in his pocket. He wished he’d gotten the truth on the day Oak Knoll closed, rather than a vague non-explanation and a locked data egg. Maybe the rest of his family could shed some light on what had happened. He could ask them about it without bringing up the M-word.
Victor went downstairs and found Auntie Circe in the large kitchen, brewing tea. Stainless steel appliances and countertops stretched along one wall, while in the middle of the room sat a large marble-topped island with a sink and electric-induction burners.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.” She poured hot water in a mug. “I thought you left with your parents.”
“No. I wanted to stay. Auntie, I—I messed up at the funeral.”
“Yes, Mother told me about that. Curious . . .” She took a small sip of her tea. “We all understand. Everyone handles grief in his or her own way, and yours . . . happens to be a bit more dramatic.”
Victor shook his head. “I forgot my dose this morning. I should have doubled up at least.”
“Are you caught up now?”
“I will be in a minute.” He ran his hands through his hair and was surprised when they came away with more than several strands. “I know I need to.”
“Victor, days like today are difficult for everyone.”
“The problem is I’m still thinking about it.” He scratched along his jawline. “Isn’t it a possibility Granfa was murdered?”
Circe looked into her mug. “It seems beyond the pale to me. We’ve come a long way since the start of the twentieth century. That kind of corruption . . .” She stumbled a bit over the word and took in another breath. “It’s something we’ve left behind for the most part. Carmichael excepted.”
Victor shook his head. “There’s something fishy about the timing of it all. Even Granma and Granfa’s dogs seemed to start acting strangely when Oak Knoll closed. And didn’t you see how he looked at the funeral? What’s worse”—as Victor spoke he realized he was thinking more clearly than he had in years—“I get this odd feeling that I wouldn’t have noticed anything if I had taken my dose. Maybe they’re interfering with my—”
“I know what you’re thinking. About coming off your meds. It’s a terrible idea. They’re protecting you.”
“Yes, I know. Protecting me from myself. Protecting everyone else too.”
Circe looked at him with a blank face. “Your troubles today came from the fact that you forgot to take your pills. Any changes in your medication schedule must be signed off by a Health Board–licensed physician. And for good reason.”
Victor frowned. “But when I looked through Granfa’s medical records—”
“You did what?” Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t let Mother know what you’re up to.”
“You don’t think it’s odd it took so long to diagnose heart failure?”
“I don’t.” A faint smile crept onto her face. “People want medicine to be black-and-white, but the reality is that we’re far more complicated organisms than we often realize. And the care we provide is imperfect.”
Victor grimaced. She wasn’t listening to him. Maybe she was preoccupied by her responsibilities with the business. “Was there an autopsy?” he asked. “Maybe if I read the report . . .”
Circe reached out and placed her hand gently on Victor’s shoulder. “I know it helps to talk about your fantasies. But you can’t indulge this tendency. Your reclassification appointment is the thirty-first of May, as you well know. You need to show you’re in command of your senses. We can’t let you go the way of Samuel Miller.”
Victor felt a chill climb up his spine and icy fingers stroke his face. “Of course not. I’m trying. I am. I’m going to pull my life together. My job—”
“I’m certain Gene-Us will continue to be a useful outlet for your intellect. Karine speaks highly of you, and, believe me, she can be a powerful ally.”
Karine was Victor’s boss and an old friend of his aunt’s for as long as he could remember. Karine had always treated him with respect but also a frosty formality. He said, “I don’t think she likes me.”
“That’s just her personality. Besides your job, though, Victor, don’t forget to nurture your social connections as well. I saw Elena at the funeral. I’m sure you’re glad she’s back.” Circe smiled and drank her tea in several gulps. “Don’t miss any more doses, okay?”
Victor nodded. “It’s just that it seems like something changed with Granfa around the time he shut Oak Knoll. And he was trying to tell me something.”
Circe raised an eyebrow. He had her full attention. “Tell you what?”
“I don’t know, but he gave me this.” Victor held up the data egg.
Her eyes widened and focused on the black round shape. “What on earth?”
Victor smiled. That was Granma Cynthia’s phrase. “A data egg. It hasn’t opened.”
“He gave this to you? When?”
“The day he closed Oak Knoll.”
She placed the mug on the counter. “Oak Knoll was a loss above all others. If only he’d consulted me.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Hold onto that, Victor. Keep it with you. Our mementos are precious, none so precious as those given by the departed.” She hugged him firmly, then walked away.
Victor lingered in the kitchen after she left. A thought swam just outside the limits of his consciousness. He tried to reel it in, but couldn’t. He would take his dose of Personil as soon as he finished sleuthing, but he wasn’t looking forward to the dopey, gray, and lethargic feelings that accompanied the medication.
Navigating back to the office upstairs was a tricky prospect with all the lights dimmed, but he couldn’t take the chance that his granma would catch him snooping. She would never forgive him for breaking in.
Mounds of furniture blocked his path. Baroque legs of chairs and tables seemed to stretch out to trip him, and he nearly fell while climbing the padded stairs. He grit his teeth and tiptoed onward.
In Granfa Jeff’s study, the medical records continued to whisper to him. There was something he wasn’t seeing—if he could just study the pages hard enough, if he could just clear his mind of its fog.
The Personil.
Rather than digging in his bag for one of the capsules, he lay down on the couch and settled his gaze on the herb book. He was tired of living his life in a
daze. Maybe it was time to seek out an alternative.
Chapter 8
Holistic Healing Network Buys Controlling Stake in Gene-Us Enterprises
OAKLAND & BAYSHORE, 24 February 1991—The Holistic Healing Network (HHN), owned by the Eastmore family, will buy a controlling stake in Gene-Us Enterprises for $2.2 billion AUD, taking the gene-sequencing company private, according to a filing with the AU Corporate Registry. Circe Eastmore, daughter of HHN’s late founder Jefferson Eastmore, will serve as acting chair and chief of the merged concern, which will be renamed BioScan Inc.
Ms. Eastmore is quoted by a local MeshNews agent as saying, “Together as BioScan Inc. we will make use of the latest genetic sequencing and medical treatment technologies. We will remain a health-focused enterprise while also exploring how these technologies can be used in the enhancement and addiction treatment markets. Our efforts fall under the umbrella of a new initiative we call ‘Evolving Together’ that will see us make a multibillion-AUD investment in new and promising research.”
—MeshNews report
Semiautonomous California
24 February 1991
The morning after the funeral Victor woke on the couch in his granfa’s office, tangled in a knitted blanket. Hieu had probably covered him and let him sleep. The man had worshiped Jefferson and must have absorbed some of his fondness for Victor over the years. There were three kinds of people in the world: those who hated Victor, those who put up with him—he included his parents in this set—and a small group who genuinely seemed to like him: Granfa Jeff, Auntie Circe, Hieu, and Elena.
Victor paged through his granfa’s medical records again, some key insight still escaping him. To stop using Personil wasn’t enough. He needed something else to jolt his mind into action. A juice might help. Maybe—
