On Broken Wings

by Francis Porretto

  It registered on the man at that point that his troubles had escalated beyond a soiled garment. He stood up, wary eyes never leaving Louis's face.

  Louis pretended not to notice. He took one end of the club in each hand and bent it double before handing it back with a pleasant smile. The man took it back open-mouthed.

  "Good choice. The steel ones bend much too easily. We'll take it from here, friend. Go home and find something else to wear."

  "But my dog -- !"

  Louis shook his head again. "You don't have a dog. Or are you referring to my dog?"

  The man paled. "But...but...I got him for my wife."

  The spike of fury that passed through Louis made him bare his teeth in an animal rictus, the gesture that announces an imminent attack. The churl in the bathrobe stepped back.

  You're testing my patience, idiot. If I were certain that dog was limping because of you, I'd straighten that club out again just to thrash you with it.

  "Tell your wife whatever you like, friend. Maybe you could tell her that you did what you were trying to do. I'm sure she'd be impressed. Now go home and either get dressed or lose some weight before you put your nose past the end of your driveway again."

  He turned and went to where Christine was holding the dog by its collar and stroking it.

  Don't let me see your ugly face when I turn around again. I might not let you keep that either.

  Damn, that felt good.

  ***

  Richard Orloff strode silently through the labyrinthine corridors of Onteora Aviation's Engineering Center. Christine followed, trying hard to keep her composure.

  The dog got to go with Louis, and I have to stay here. Shit!

  They came at last to a large, plushly furnished corner office with glass block walls and a wide picture window that looked out over the OA campus. The office was a discordant note in the sea of industrial gray cubicles and sheet steel furniture. A large, broad shouldered man wearing a tan sports jacket and a forced looking smile sat at the desk therein.

  "Got a present for you, Roger. Christine, I'd like you to meet Roger Morrison, OA's special projects director. You'll be one of his crew for the foreseeable future. Roger, this is Miss Christine D'Alessandro."

  Morrison rose and extended his hand; Christine took it. It was warm and faintly damp. He pumped her hand once, let go, and was back in his seat before Christine and Orloff had seated themselves.

  This guy's nervous about something. Me?

  "Where is Chris from, Dick?"

  Orloff pursed his lips. "Remember Louis Redmond?"

  "As if I could forget!" Morrison chuckled.

  "Louis trained her." Orloff paused. "Brought her to me personally, a few days ago. Says she's the best he's ever seen. Maybe better than he is. Got any use for someone like that?"

  Morrison's eyes went wide. He panned from Orloff's face to Christine's as if his head were a television camera.

  Why is he overdoing it like this?

  "Young lady, if you're that good, not only do I have a use for you, I'll protect you as if you were my own daughter." He peered around his office in a caricature of paranoia. "You haven't met my daughter, have you?"

  She mumbled, "No," just as the project manager broke into laughter at his own jibe. Orloff scowled.

  These two don't get along too well.

  "Can I leave her with you, Roger?"

  "Oh, sure, I'll take it from here. Thanks again, Dick." The director rose and made his way out. Morrison leaned forward across his desk, and Christine suppressed an urge to back away.

  "So what kinds of projects have you worked on most recently, Chris?"

  She tried to relax, found it difficult. "A lot of access method stuff, pattern recognition and storage compression techniques, mostly."

  He flashed the plastic smile again. "That's a good match for something we're doing. I'm thinking of you for the Automated Aircraft Recognition project. We study ways to identify planes from their radar signature, entirely in software. How does that sound to you?"

  What does it matter how it sounds? You sign the checks. Tell me what you want done and I'll do it.

  "Pretty good, I guess."

  He chuckled again. "I think I'll let Rolf Svenson brief you in the rest of the way. He runs the Simulation Software end of things, and you'll be reporting to him. My job is mostly to make sure everyone has a desk and no one runs out of pencils."

  He rose and headed out of the office, plainly expecting her to follow. She scurried after him, afraid to lose sight of him amid the endless rows of identical gray fabric walls.

  It took a fair walk to reach Rolf Svenson's cubicle. The cube was filled with books, papers and odd bits of electronics and analysis equipment in no discernible order. Svenson himself was a tall, gaunt man of about fifty, with a bony face and a fringe of gray-blond hair. He gave no sign of recognition as Morrison approached. He was staring into the screen of the terminal before him as if it were the face of his only true love.

  I wonder if I look like that.

  "Rolf? Ground control to Rolf Svenson..."

  Svenson sat up and turned toward them with a jerk. His expression was sheepish, as if they'd caught him in an embarrassing position. It was a relief after Morrison's toothy display.

  "What's up, Roger?"

  "You have a new sidekick." Morrison introduced the two with the same overdose of false bonhomie he had troweled onto Orloff and Christine. She knew that if she had to endure the man much longer, she'd be thoroughly sick of him before lunch. Thankfully, he seemed to be as eager to depart the cubicle slums and return to his palatial office as she was to be rid of him. Svenson seemed to have been cut from a different bolt of cloth.

  When the project manager had headed back to his lair, Svenson lifted a pile of papers from what turned out to be a metal guest chair and gestured to her to sit.

  "How do you feel about research projects like this one?"

  Why do they keep asking me that?

  "Sounds interesting. What have you got for me to do?"

  "Well, we're on the simulation end of things. Another group, Tactical Systems, does the flight software for the planes. It's our job to produce a simulated theater of battle for them, so that they can 'fly' their software for test and evaluation purposes, right here on the ground. Have you done any pattern recognition work?"

  "Yeah, some."

  "In two-D?" He peered at her.

  "No, just bit patterns."

  He shrugged. "It was really too much to hope for. We're one of maybe a dozen places in the world that does it, and the only place in the Northeast. Let me give you the fifty-cent tour."

  He described the project and its components for the next half-hour. Christine listened with concentration. If she was fated to work here, she was going to give it her best.

  At the conclusion, he sketched out a set of rules for extracting what he called a visual signature from a two-dimensional intensity array and for trying to match it against a collection of stored signatures within a set of tolerances and a tight time frame. She was already imagining data structures and relations among them as he wound down.

  "So how long do you think it would take you to design and code an approach to that?"

  She thought hard for about a minute.

  "I'd like to play with it for a little bit. Can you wait for it until tomorrow?"

  He leaned forward to peer into her eyes again.

  "Yeah, I can wait till tomorrow. Let me show you your cube."

  He rose and led her to a vacant cubicle. It was equipped with the unvarying sheet steel furniture. A personal computer of familiar appearance sat on the desk. Otherwise, it was empty.

  "Home Sweet Home." He waved in mock affection.

  "Thanks, I've got one already."

  He laughed. "It's not really so bad. At least we each have our own machines. Oh, by the way, this is a casual office. You don't have to dress up or make up that way every day. Relax and try to enjoy yourself."

  "Tha
nks, Rolf, but I'm comfy this way. It doesn't bother you, does it?"

  He stepped back a pace and looked her up and down.

  "Whatever floats your boat, Chris. I've had to work next to women with spiked purple hair and pins through their noses. Men, too, come to think of it. You won't hear any complaints from me."

  He's okay.

  "Rolf, could I ask a favor?"

  "Certainly."

  "Could you stop by at five and help me find the exit? I sort of misplaced it while I was being walked around."

  He chuckled. "No problem. What about the ladies' room?"

  She gave him her best smile.

  ***

  Louis was at the front gate in her car when Svenson dropped her off there at five. The dog was lying across the back seat, occupying all of it.

  "How was your day?"

  She seated herself in the passenger seat, faced straight forward and put her purse in her lap. "Better hurry home."

  "What? Why, Chris?" He whipped the Chrysler through a U-turn and began to accelerate rapidly.

  She turned slowly toward him and let her smile spread across her face.

  "Because we've been apart for nine hours, which felt a hell of a lot more like nine years, and what I want to do to you just now is probably illegal out here in the open. Might upset the dog, too."

  Louis pulled off the accelerator and laughed. The dog leaned forward and flicked his tongue at the side of Louis's face.

  "His name is Boomer, Chris. He's a Newf."

  "A what?"

  "A Newf. Short for Newfoundland. Best damn dogs in the world. Smart, loyal, affectionate, and not a mean bone in their bodies. I saw a Newf pull a drowning swimmer out of the Hudson River once. Wasn't his master, either. Guy was a total stranger."

  There was a funny rasp in his voice. She looked a little more closely at his face. He was flushed from the collar line to the top of his ears.

  Well, how often do you have a day like this one? He's probably as excited about it as I am. He sure sounds it.

  She turned to examine the dog. His skull was broad and his muzzle short, like a bear's head. His coat was glossy and appeared to have been recently brushed. He seemed to be smiling at her. He was drooling all over the back seat.

  I hope that stuff cleans up.

  "So he's ours now?"

  Louis nodded. "Since eight this morning. I took him to the vet. He's got a bruised right thigh, but otherwise he's in top condition. Three years old, a hundred and forty pounds. Comes of good stock, too. You should spend a lot of time with him, let him get to know you."

  He turned the car onto Alexander Avenue. She reached back to rub Boomer's head. The dog stretched to meet her hand and basked openly in the attention.

  Louis Redmond, rescuer of strays. Arf, arf.

  "Do you know how to take care of a dog, Louis? Because I sure don't."

  "Fear not, fair maiden. There's this marvelous invention called 'the book.' " There was that rasp again, accompanied by a tremor this time. Was he shaking? "I picked up a couple for you this afternoon. But Newfs are tolerant dogs. You have to go way wrong before they even notice it."

  Boomer was licking her hand. The sensation was ticklish and endearing.

  "Okay."

  "Want to hear something funny, Chris?" If you ignored the rasp, the flush, and the tremor that she saw running up both his arms, he appeared radiantly happy and at ease with the world. "You asked me this morning what I was going to do while you were at work, remember?"

  "Yeah."

  "I was going to go down to the county pound and adopt a dog. The biggest one they had."

  His voice was beginning to fade in and out, as if he couldn't tell how loudly he was speaking. She began to wonder whether he'd caught a bug.

  "That asshole saved you a trip."

  "He surely did. I guess my luck is in."

  The Chrysler lurched into their driveway. Louis threw open the door, bounded out of the car, and collapsed.

  Boomer shrieked and began to pummel the window.

  ====

  Chapter 26

  Louis woke to darkness. The blinds and curtains had been pulled closed over both his bedroom's windows. Christine lay beside him. They were both clothed, and covered by a single light blanket. She was clutching him hard enough to leave bruises. He tried not to move.

  "Chris? What time is it?"

  She rose onto an elbow. He saw only the outline of her head, and was grateful for it.

  "Thank God." She emitted a shaky sigh. "It's a little before eleven."

  "AM or PM?"

  "PM. Louis, what happened?"

  Choose your words carefully, chum. She's sharp.

  "I don't remember clearly. Mostly just that I had a spasm of some sort. Did you get me in here by yourself?"

  "Well, of course. You're not that heavy."

  "No, but a limp body's a lot for one person to handle." He tried to sit up. She pressed him back.

  "Let me up, Chris, I have to pee."

  "Helen and the Father are downstairs."

  Jesus, Mary and Joseph, she called in the cavalry!

  "How long have they been here?"

  "I called them as soon as I had you inside. I didn't know what else to do."

  "It's okay, Chris. Where's Boomer?"

  She pointed toward the foot of the bed. Louis followed her finger to the outline of a large black canine head. He chuckled.

  "Hard to see him in the dark."

  "He wouldn't leave your side. They drool a lot, don't they?"

  "Yes, they do. Why?"

  "You came close to drowning in it."

  He chuckled again. "No wonder I feel like I've had my face polished." This could be a problem in the making. "Chris, my wetting the bed isn't going to improve things. And we should go downstairs and see to our guests."

  "Louis, why wouldn't the Father let me call an ambulance for you?"

  "Because he's known me a long time. I've had some odd occasions before. Nothing ever came of them."

  He was treading on the edge of fiction, but he had no better choice.

  She allowed him to rise. He patted Boomer's head, then made straight for the bathroom. After he'd relieved himself, he stared into the mirror, examining his face.

  For more than a month he'd been fighting down random tics and twitches, mostly in his legs. Recently they'd started to battle him for the control of his arms. They had escalated in intensity, slowly, but without reversal. Several times a day for the past week, he'd found a limb or a digit doing something other than what he'd intended.

  This spasm had been nothing he could override or abate. It had felt like a massive blast of electric current, shooting from the base of his spine directly into his brain. The memories of his postoperative pain were pale in comparison. He remembered falling, but not striking the ground.

  Miles told me it would be like this when my time was up. I can't have more than a few days left.

  Another jolt like that could be it for me. It could stop my heart or my breathing for good. I must have tumors the whole length of my spine by now. At least my face hasn't been affected much yet.

  Am I ever going to tell her? There's not a lot of time left to decide.

  When he tried to imagine breaking the news to Christine, his thought processes stopped dead.

  Whatever I do, I'm going to die. And if I can't tell her that I'm going to die, how can I actually go ahead and do it?

  The face in the mirror showed some strain. Both his eyes were tinged with red. Under each was a new pocket of slightly saggy skin. If he watched long enough he could see the skin dance in tiny random currents. Now and then one of those currents ran a little distance down his cheek. The muscles along his jawline were tight, too tight. He tried to relax them, but with little success.

  Stare into it as he might, that face had no answers for him.

  ***

  Helen and Father Schliemann rose from the sofa when Christine's footsteps sounded on the stairs. The young
woman's face was expressionless.

  "He's awake. Seems to be okay."

  "Did he say anything, sweetie?" Helen said.

  Christine shook her head. "Something like 'shit happens.' "

  Helen caught Father Schliemann's wince out of the corner of her eye.

  "Well, yes, it does, but it happens for a reason." She turned to the priest standing beside her. "Do you know anything about this, Father?"

  The old priest grimaced. "I couldn't begin to explain it, dear. He seems perfectly healthy."

  Which means nothing.

  "Will he be coming down to join us?"

  Christine nodded. "Give him a minute to get presentable. You know, put on a flannel shirt he hasn't slept in."

  Helen nodded, and they all took seats. Her heart was still racing. She wanted an ambulance, a team of doctors, a mobile field hospital. She wanted the Mayo Clinic to relocate to that spot and put all its facilities to work finding out what had collapsed Louis Redmond in his driveway like an empty sack. She knew she wouldn't get any of that, and it was fraying her self-control.

  If I'm going to lose it, I'll do it at home alone. Not here in front of Chris.

  Louis and Boomer made their appearances together. He was indistinguishable from the Louis Redmond Helen knew. His slight flush could have been from having slept in his clothes in too warm a room. He approached them with no hint of distress. Boomer stayed close by his side.

  "Helen, Father, thanks endlessly for coming by to help Chris, but I'm okay. Father, you knew I'd had episodes like this before, didn't you?"

  The priest nodded silently, his face a Sphinx's mask.

  "Which doesn't mean I don't appreciate how scary they look. Chris was probably beside herself." He reached down to rub Boomer's head. "She wasn't the only one."

  The huge black dog looked up at him in adoration, tongue lolling. Helen suppressed a wave of irritation.

  Damn it, does he have that effect on everyone?

  "Is it a chronic condition, Louis?"

  He nodded ruefully. "I'll have it the rest of my life."

  "No pills?"

  He grimaced. "It's awfully late. I should let you both get back to your own homes and beds. Thanks again, I really do appreciate it, and I know Chris does too."