Bleeding Edge

by Pynchon, Thomas

  “How could anybody make money doing that?” Maxine can’t quite figure.

  “There’s always a way to monetize anything. Not my department. I’m happy enough with the exposure.”

  “Build up your traffic, hope that network effects kick in, yes, sounds like an all-too-familiar sad but true business plan.”

  “As long as the material gets out there. Long as somebody puts in some HTML that’ll make it easy to repost.”

  “You really think Bush’s people are behind this.”

  “You don’t?”

  “I’m just a fraud examiner. Bush, don’t get me started. The Arab angle, I have these Jewish reflexes, so I have to work to avoid paranoia on that subject also.”

  “Hear ya. It’s all good in the brotherhood, don’t intend no disrespect to nobody, too busy workin on my new packaging, Reg 2.0, nonviolent, West Coast and stress free.”

  “Just step careful. Send me some footage sometime. Oh, and Reg?”

  “Anything, my sister.”

  “Think I ought to short Microsoft?”

  • • •

  NEXT TIME MAXINE AND CORNELIA do lunch, they agree to meet down at Streetlight People. Maxine brings Rocky a Xerox of the hashslingrz file Windust gave her.

  “Here, the latest on how hashslingrz is spending your money.”

  Rocky scans a page or two with a quizzical face. “Who generated this thing?”

  “No-name agency down in D.C., obviously with some ax to grind, but I can’t figure out what it is. Hiding behind some jive-ass think tank.”

  “Comes at a good time anyway, we’ve been looking at our exit options from hashslingrz, it’s OK I show this to Spud and the board?”

  “If they can follow it, sure, what are you guys thinking these days, recapitalize?”

  “Probably, there’s no IPO in the works, no M&A, they got plenty of government work, frankly it’s just time to get out. The cash, naturally, but there’s something else about them over there, like . . . can I say evil?”

  “This is what, Mister Rogers’s neighborhood? I assume you mean IBM- or Microsoft-type evil.”

  “You ever had eye contact with this guy? It’s like he knows you know how bad it could be and he don’ give a shit?”

  “Thought it was only me.”

  “None of us know how complicated this is gonna get, who they’re really workin for, but if even people in D.C. are gettin worried now,” tapping the dossier, “it’s cash-for-equity time.”

  “So I take it I’m off the case.”

  “But on my Rolodex forever.”

  “Spare her,” Cornelia breezing in. “He’s always telling me the same thing, don’t listen.”

  “Git outta here, ya ditzy broads, I got woik ta do.”

  Owing to Cornelia’s impression that Maxine somehow observes kosher eating guidelines, they end up at another “Jewish” deli, Mrs. Pincus’s Chicken Soup Emporium. A chain, yet. Everybody seems to be from out of town. Fortunately, the appetites Maxine and Cornelia have brought with them are more for schmoozing than for authenticity-challenged gefilte fish.

  Presently Cornelia, with the skill of an accomplished close-up card artist, has out of what seems a randomly shuffled deck of lunch conversation lightly brought them to the topic of families and the eccentrics to be found lurking therein.

  “My policy,” Maxine sez, “is don’t get me started, all too soon we’re back in the shtetl with some dark magic in progress.”

  “Oh, tell me. My family, well . . . ‘Talk about dysfunctional!’ pretty much sums it up. We’ve even got one in the CIA.”

  “One? I thought all you people worked for the CIA.”

  “Only Cousin Lloyd. Well, that I know of.”

  “He’s allowed to talk about what he does?”

  “Perhaps not. We’re never sure. It’s . . . it’s Lloyd, you see.”

  “Y— Well, not exactly.”

  “You must understand these are Long Island Thrubwells, not at all to be confused with the Manhattan branch of the family, and though we have never embraced eugenics or anything of that sort, it is often difficult not to entertain some DNA-based explanation for what, after all, does present rather a pattern.”

  “High percentage of . . .”

  “Idiots, basically, mm-hmm . . . Don’t mistake my meaning, Cousin Lloyd was always an agreeable child, he and I got along well, at family gatherings none of the food he threw would actually ever strike me personally . . . But beyond mealtime assault, his true gift, one might say compulsion, was for tattling. He was always creeping about, observing the less supervised activities of his peers, taking detailed notes, and when these weren’t convincing enough, I’m embarrassed to say, making things up.”

  “So, perfect CIA material.”

  “Ever so long on their wait list, till last year a position in the Inspector General’s office fell vacant.”

  “And this is like Internal Affairs, he actually snitches on the CIA? that’s not dangerous for him?”

  “It’s mostly inventory theft, they’re forever stealing bullets to use in their own private weapons? that seems to be one of Cousin Lloyd’s pet peeves.”

  “So he’s working in ‘D.C. now,’ as Martha and the Vandellas might say. Does he ever do any moonlighting? Like, consultation?”

  “I shouldn’t wonder. Idiots have expenses, after all, the medications, the frequent blackmail payments and police bribes, the pointed hats, which of course have to be custom-fitted . . . but I do hope, Maxi, that you aren’t in any sort of difficulty with the Agency?”

  Why are disingenuousness alarms suddenly going off here? “Some agency, maybe not that one, but coming from down in that direction at least, yes indeed, and you know, come to think of it, suppose there was something I might like to talk over with your cousin . . .”

  “Shall I ask him to get in touch?”

  “Thanks, Cornelia, I owe you one . . . or, without having met Lloyd yet, say at least half of one.”

  “No, thank you, Maxi, this has all been so wonderful. So . . .” gesturing around Mrs. Pincus’s as if at a loss for words.

  Maxine, lips closed and eyes narrowed, one more than the other, smiles. “Ethnic.”

  • • •

  COUSIN LLOYD, luckily not into the NYC dating scene, where haste like this would earn him instant rejection, calls Maxine early the next day. He sounds so nervous that Maxine decides to lull him with generic accounting-fraud talk. “Right now it’s all converging on a think tank down there called TANGO? You’ve heard of them?”

  “Oh. Very much the hot property in town right now. Quite popular with Double-U and his crowd.”

  “One of their people, an operative named Windust, is proving a little problematic, I can’t seem to find anything about him, not even an official bio, he’s password-protected to the max, firewalls behind firewalls, I don’t have the resources to get past any of that.” Little me. “And if it turns out he was involved in, oh, let’s say . . . embezzling . . .”

  “And, not wishing to presume . . . you two are . . . chums?” managing to surround the word with guttural slime.

  “Hmm. Once again, whoever’s listening, I am not numbered among Mr. Windust’s fan base and know next to nothing about him, except he’s some kind of Friedmanite hit man, working 24/7 to keep the world convenient for people perhaps much like yourself, Mr. Thrubwell.”

  “Oh, dear, no offense I hope . . . I will try to see what I can do from this end. Our databases—they’re world-famous, you know. I’m cleared pretty much all the way to Eyes Only, it shouldn’t be a bother.”

  “I so look forward.”

  Thanks to the thumb drive Marvin delivered, of course, Maxine has most of Windust’s résumé already, so putting Lloyd on his case is not for informational purposes, especially . . . In fact, Maxine, why are you harassing the man? Some honorable obsession about nailing the likely murderer of Lester Traipse, or just feeling neglected, missing the old pantyhose ripper’s curious notions about foreplay? Tal
k about ambivalent!

  At least, if Lloyd is half the idiot his cousin Cornelia thinks he is, Windust should become aware of CIA interest in a fairly short time. No reason he shouldn’t start watching his back like everybody else. Right now petty molestation is about all that’s available to Maxine, down here in the small time, without anything you could call a moral sight line, no way to know how to compete at that elite level, that planetary pyramid scheme Windust’s employers have always bet everything on, with its smoothly delivered myths of the limitless. No idea of how to step outside her own history of safe choices and dowse her way across the desert of this precarious hour, hoping to find what? some refuge, some American DeepArcher . . .

  33

  Maxine has a purseful of time-sensitive passwords from Vyrva, changed every fifteen minutes on average, for getting into DeepArcher. She can’t help noticing this time how different the place is. What was once a train depot is now a Jetsons-era spaceport with all wacky angles, jagged towers in the distance, lenticular enclosures up on stilts, saucer traffic coming and going up in the neon sky. Yuppified duty-free shops, some for offshore brands she doesn’t recognize even the font they’re written in. Advertising everywhere. On walls, on the clothing and skins of crowd extras, as pop-ups out of the Invisible and into your face. She wonders if— Sure enough, here they are, lurking around the entrance to a Starbucks, a pair of cyberflaneurs who turn out to be Eric’s ad-business acquaintances Promoman and Sandwichgrrl.

  “Nice place to hang out,” sez Sandwichgrrl.

  “Not to mention do business,” adds Promoman. “Joint’s jumpin. A lot of these folks who look like only virtual background? they are real users.”

  “Really. There’s supposed to be all kinds of deep encryption.”

  “There’s also the backdoor, you didn’t know about that?”

  “Since when?”

  “Weeks . . . months?”

  So that 11 September window of vulnerability Lucas and Justin were so worried about, for good reason apparently, has allowed not only unwelcome guests to sneak in but somebody—Gabriel Ice, the feds, fed sympathizers, other forces unknown who’ve had their eye on the site—to install a backdoor also. And easy as that, there goes the neighborhood. She clicks away, reaching at length a strange creepy nimbus like a follow spot in a club where you know you’ll get sick before the evening ends, has a moment of doubt, ignores it, clicks on into the heart of the nauseous blear of light, and then everything for a while goes black, blacker than anything she’s seen on a screen before.

  When the picture returns, she seems to be traveling in a deepspace vehicle . . . there’s a menu for choosing among views, and, switching briefly to an exterior shot, she discovers it’s not a single vehicle but more like a convoy, not quite simply-connected, spaceships of different ages and sizes moving along through an extended forever . . . Heidi, if asked, would say she detected some Battlestar Galactica influence.

  Inside Maxine finds corridors of glimmering space-age composite, long as boulevards, soaring interior distances, sculptured shadows, traffic through upwardly thickening twilight, pedestrians crossing bridges, airborne vehicles for passengers and for cargo busily glittering . . . Only code, she reminds herself. But who of all these faceless and uncredited could have written it and why?

  Popping up in midair, a paging window appears, requesting her presence on the bridge, with a set of directions. Somebody must have seen her log in.

  On the bridge she finds empty liquor bottles and used syringes. The captain’s chair is a La-Z-Boy recliner of distant vintage, hideous beige and covered with cigarette burns. There are inexpensive posters of Denise Richards and Tia Carrere Scotch-taped to the bulkheads. Some sort of hip-hop mix is coming from hidden speakers, at the moment Nate Dogg and Warren G, doing the huge mid-nineties West Coast hit “Regulate.” Personnel come and go on various errands, but the pace is not what you’d call brisk.

  “Welcome to the bridge, Ms. Loeffler.” A loutish youth, unshaven, in cargo shorts and a stained More Cowbell T-shirt. There is a shift in the ambience. The music segues to the theme from Deus Ex, the lights dim, the space is tidied by invisible cyberelves.

  “So where’s everybody? the captain? the exec? The science officer?”

  Raising one eyebrow and fingering the tops of his ears as if testing for pointiness, “Sorry, prime directive, No Fuckin Officers.” Gesturing her over to the forward observation windows. “The grandeur of space, dig it. Zillions of stars, each one gets its own pixel.”

  “Awesome.”

  “Maybe, but it’s code’s all it is.”

  An antenna swivels. “Lucas, is that you?”

  “Bus-tiiid!” The screen filling for a moment with psychedelic iTunes Visualizer patterns.

  “So you’re in here dealing with what, backdoor issues, I hear?”

  “Um, not exactly.”

  “They tell me it’s wide open these days.”

  “Downside of being proprietary, always guarantees a backdoor sooner or later,”

  “And you’re all right with this? How about Justin?”

  “We’re good, fact we were never comfortable with that old model anyway.”

  Old model. Which must mean . . . “Some big news, let me guess.”

  “Yep. We finally decided to go open source. Just sent the tarball out.”

  “Meaning . . . anybody . . . ?”

  “Anybody with the patience to get through it, they want it, they got it. There’s already a Linux translation on the way, which should bring the amateurs in in droves.”

  “So the big bucks . . .”

  “No longer an option. Maybe never was. Justin and me’ll have to keep on being working stiffs for a while.”

  She watches the unfolding flow of starscape, Kabbalistic vessels smashed at the Creation into all these bright drops of light, rushing out from the singular point that gave them birth, known elsewhere as the expanding universe . . . “What would happen if I started to click on some of these pixels here?”

  “You could get lucky. It’s nothin we wrote. There could be links to somewhere else. You could also spend your life dowsing the Void and never getting much of anywhere.”

  “And this ship—it isn’t on the way to DeepArcher, is it?”

  “More like out on an expedition. Exploring. When the earliest Vikings started moving into the northern oceans, there’s one story about finding this huge fuckin opening at the top of the world, this deep whirlpool that’d take you down and in, like a black hole, no way to escape. These days you look at the surface Web, all that yakking, all the goods for sale, the spammers and spielers and idle fingers, all in the same desperate scramble they like to call an economy. Meantime, down here, sooner or later someplace deep, there has to be a horizon between coded and codeless. An abyss.”

  “That’s what you’re looking for?”

  “Some of us are.” Avatars do not do wistful, but Maxine catches something. “Others are trying to avoid it. Depends what you’re into.”

  • • •

  MAXINE CONTINUES TO WANDER corridors for a while, striking up conversations at random, whatever “random” means in here. She begins to pick up a chill sense that some of the newer passengers could be refugees from the event at the Trade Center. No direct evidence, maybe only because she has 11 September on her mind, but everywhere now she looks, she thinks she sees bereaved survivors, perps foreign and domestic, bagmen, middlemen, paramilitary, who may have participated in the day or are only claiming to’ve done so as part of some con game.

  For those who may be genuine casualties, likenesses have been brought here by loved ones so they’ll have an afterlife, their faces scanned in from family photos, . . . some no more expressive than emoticons, others exhibiting an inventory of feeling ranging from party-euphoric through camera-shy to abjectly gloomy, some static, some animated in GIF loops, cyclical as karma, pirouetting, waving, eating or drinking whatever it was they were holding at the wedding or bar mitzvah or night out when t
he shutter blinked.

  Yet it’s as if they want to engage—they get eye contact, smile, angle their heads inquisitively. “Yes, what was it?” or “Problem?” or “Not right now, OK?” If these are not the actual voices of the dead, if, as some believe, the dead can’t speak, then the words are being put there for them by whoever posted their avatars, and what they appear to say is what the living want them to say. Some have started Weblogs. Others are busy writing code and adding it to the program files.

  She stops at a corner café and has soon fallen into conversation with a woman—maybe a woman—on a mission to the edge of the known universe. “All these know-nothings coming in, putting in, it’s as bad as the surface Web. They drive you deeper, into the deep unlighted. Beyond anyplace they’d be comfortable. And that’s where the origin is. The way a powerful telescope will bring you further out in physical space, closer to the moment of the big bang, so here, going deeper, you approach the border country, the edge of the unnavigable, the region of no information.”

  “You’re part of this project?”

  “Only here to have a look. Find out how long I can stay just at the edge of the beginning before the Word, see how long I can gaze in till I get vertigo—lovesick, nauseous, whatever—and fall in.”

  “You have an e-mail address?” Maxine wants to know.

  “Kind of you, but maybe I won’t come back. Maybe one day you’d look in your in-box and I won’t be there. Come on. Walk with me.”

  They reach a sort of observation platform, dangerously cantilevered out from the ship into high hard radiation, vacuum, lifelessness. “Look.”

  Whoever she is, she’s not carrying a bow and arrows, her hair isn’t long enough, but Maxine can see she’s gazing downward at the same steep angle, the same space-rapt focus at infinity, as the figure on the DeepArcher splash page, gazing into a void incalculably fertile with invisible links. “There’s a faint glow, after a while you notice it—some say it’s the trace, like radiation from the big bang, of the memory, in nothingness, of having once been something . . .”