“This would be the father,” one of the doctors says, turning toward Sam. Though short, she stands with the posture of a ballerina determined to get every inch of height from her vertebrae. Her skin is light brown. Her surgical scrubs are pale green. She introduces herself as Adena Pangolin, chief neurology resident.
Her beefy colleague extends his hand. “Avram Jird, Director of Neuropharmacology,” he says—though Sam half-expects something more fitting for his physique, like “bodyguard.”
“What’s going on?” Sam asks. “She’s moving!”
Dr. Jird offers a reassuring smile. “We’ve given her a tailored protein cocktail. It stimulates the mitochondria in her muscle cells as if she’d been exercising. Think of it as a liquid workout. It’ll cut down her time in physical therapy substantially.”
“That’s assuming she comes out of the coma,” Sam retorts.
“Yes.”
“Is she in pain?” Sam approaches the bed.
“Not really. It feels like a cramp if you’re conscious.”
Sam feels like he’s the one convulsing. “Are you sure she’s okay?”
Dr. Pangolin asks, “Did you review any of the video material you were sent?”
“No. Sorry. I just haven’t had time,” Sam admits.
Dr. Jird offers a vaguely accusatory nod. “By monitoring her brain activity in this phase, we hope to get a detailed neural map from which we can determine whether the damage to your daughter’s brain needs to be addressed with a counter-hemorrhagic or a psychotropic.”
Fiona mumbles something, her expression fluctuating. Her nose needs to be wiped.
“Would you like a peek inside her mind?” asks Dr. Pangolin.
“How do you mean?”
“We can wire you to an fMRI scanner that maps active areas of her brain onto yours.”
It takes Sam a moment to imagine this. “So I’ll see her dreams?”
“No, we’ve not been able to reverse-engineer source perception from synaptic activity. But based on her mental activity, we can fire analogous areas in your brain. We call it synaptic mirroring. It’s more or less a random tour through your past, but it should give you a sense of what she’s going through.”
“I’m going to observe her for a few more minutes,” Dr. Jird assures.
Sam shrugs. “Okay, I’ll give it a try, I suppose.”
Dr. Pangolin leads the way into the corridor. “Do you usually offer brain tours?” Sam asks her, only half in jest.
“No. We’re still trying to determine if synaptic mirroring has any real application.”
A delivery bot rolls by, following a path it alone sees. Placing her hand on an access scanner, Dr. Pangolin enters a lab that resembles a video-production studio.
Beyond the control board, dials, and monitors, there’s an fMRI flatbed and a few more diagnostic machines Sam doesn’t recognize. A lab tech is lying on his back on the floor, reaching up to calibrate one of them. Atop the console, a half-eaten Bird In The Bun sandwich rests in a blossom of greasy wrapping paper. Beside it towers a super-sized Global Cola.
“Hi, Ted,” Dr. Pangolin says. “Remember the EEG transform we did the other day?”
He looks up. “Sure.”
“Mr. Crane here has volunteered to give it a try.”
Looking somewhat surprised, Ted nods and rises. “I’ll make the patches. What room is the feed coming from?”
“305.”
He disappears through a door at the far end of the control room. A minute passes in silence.
Sam starts to worry. “Is this standard practice?” he asks.
“No, but it’s completely safe.”
Unconvinced, Sam folds his arms. “What’s going on?”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, I don’t think a doctor has ever spent more than five minutes with me before, much less invited me to play around on the machinery. I find this all very…unusual.”
Dr. Pangolin smiles. “It’s not every day we get a chance to entertain a friend of Mr. Cayman’s.”
“Who told you that I knew him?” he asks bemusedly.
“Dr. Dunnart.”
“And what did he say?”
“Just that Mr. Cayman wanted to make sure you and your daughter were taken care of.”
“Those were his exact words?”
Dr. Pangolin pauses for a moment. “As near as I can recall.”
Sam takes a step toward her. “I want to see Dr. Dunnart.”
Dr. Pangolin steps back. “Mr. Crane, there’s no need—”
“Stop. Take me to him.”
“He’s at a conference in Miami.”
“Call Cayman, then.”
“Mr. Crane,” Dr. Pangolin protests, “I don’t appreciate being bullied.”
“Get over it,” Sam snaps. “That’s what happens when you play games with my kid.”
Dr. Pangolin looks dismayed. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m not Cayman’s friend. I’ve never met the man. But he got my daughter into this drug trial. And now he’s saying we’re old pals and is pushing to get me into a brain scanner? Does that sound odd to you?”
“I guess.”
“It’s less so when you know that I’m investigating the death of Xian Mako. Does that name ring a bell?”
“I met him briefly.”
“I think that Cayman is involved somehow. And if he is, it fits that he’d want a hold over me.”
“Mr. Crane—”
“If there’s anyone being bullied here, it’s me,” Sam insists. “It’s an implied threat. That’s why we need to have a few words. Will you help me?”
With an exaggerated sigh, Dr. Pangolin relents. “Alright, I’ll give it a try.” She summons her agent and places the call.
After a brief delay, Cayman’s agent answers, then queries her employer. The ambient sound of an outdoor location can suddenly be heard.
“Harris Cayman here. What can I do for you, Doctor?”
“I’m here with Sam Crane, the father of one of the kids in the Lucidan trial.”
A laugh. “Hello, Sam. A pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
“I take it you’re the one who wants to chat?”
“The doctor is just running the switchboard.”
“Well, I’m engaged at the moment, but I have some time tomorrow. Have you been to Havanaland before?”
“No.”
“What fun. You’ll have a ball. I’ll send my jet to fetch you. Be at home by five today.”
It takes a moment for Sam to respond. The opportunity to question Cayman in person might not present itself again. “Okay,” he says finally. “What about Fiona?”
“I’m sure Dr. Pangolin and her staff will take good care of her. And I won’t detain you for long. Fair enough?”
“Sure. I’ll be ready.”
“Splendid. Ciao.”
Dr. Pangolin’s agent announces the termination of the call.
“Thanks,” Sam says, unsettled by the encounter.
Dr. Pangolin nods. “I hope things work out for you.”
“Just take care of Fiona,” he says. Without waiting for a reply, he retraces his steps to his daughter’s room. He knows he should feel grateful that his daughter is in a private research hospital. It’s a lot cleaner and quieter, to be sure. But it feels like he has a gun to his head.
Fiona has settled down somewhat. Dr. Jird is still there, monitoring her on his handheld tablet. “Back so soon?”
“I’d like a minute alone with her,” Sam says.
“Of course,” Dr. Jird says with practiced deference. “Take as much time as you need. I’ll be back shortly.” He steps out.
The family photos Sam loaded into the wall display dissolve from one to the next: Fiona in silhouette, a plastic pail in hand, entranced by the sun sinking into the sea; Sandra buried in sand, much to the amusement of a gleeful little girl.
His late wife. Not late—absent. There’s a difference. He
r face is a hammer in his head. He commands Marilyn to license some landscapes as temporary replacements. There are never any people in stock landscapes—a fact that goes a long way toward explaining their appeal.
Sam touches Fiona on the forehead, though fever isn’t really a concern. What began as a diagnostic act now serves as an expression of affection. He notices her nails have been trimmed since yesterday. That speaks well of the Zvista staff.
Leaning over to whisper in her ear, he tells his daughter that he may be away for a few days. Someone will stop by, he says, without knowing who it will be. His mother-in-law perhaps, or maybe Tony. A kiss on the cheek seals the deal. Her skin smells medicinal, like the antiseptic used to wash the bedridden.
From the parking lot, Sam watches the fog muster behind Twin Peaks. In a few hours, the mist will occupy the city. It’s entrancing, the stately pace of the white waves; everything else moves so fast, in jump cuts and frames per second. His reverie is ended by the Dopplered roar of a low-flying air taxi.
“Is everything alright, Sam?” Marilyn asks.
Pondering the question, Sam is almost ready to believe it was born of compassion. But he knows better. He knows that’s the network’s way of asking if he has any needs that can be met with a quick debit or two. For every void in your soul, there’s a shrink-wrapped product to make you whole. Still, even counterfeit concern is welcome. Like a placebo, it has some effect.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he answers. “Just thinking about Fiona.” He mounts his motorcycle without knowing where he’s going. In four hours, he has to be home. He owes a visit to Ikura Industries, the fish distributor Ernesto mentioned. But he’d rather go early, when the boats return with their catch.
“Perhaps she’d like some art in her room,” Marilyn suggests.
That’s who he needs to see: Cayman’s daughter. She might be able to offer some insight regarding her father.
Marilyn continues, “For a limited time, Corbis is offering its Beautiful People collection for fifty percent off. Studies indicate that clinical outcomes are seven percent better if patients are surrounded by faces as opposed to landscapes.”
“Whose study?”
“Please be more specific.”
“Who funded the study?”
“The International Federation of Portrait Photographers.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “I’ll pass, Marilyn.” Over the rumble of the engine, he asks for the location of Amy Ibis.
Marilyn answers, “According to Content Corp’s feed, Amy Ibis is at the University of California, Berkeley, speaking at a demonstration.”
Leaving his bike under the shade of a token tree just off Telegraph Avenue at Dwight Way, Sam makes his way toward the UC campus. Pedestrians spill from the sidewalk into the street, slowing traffic. At Moody’s Liquid Pharmacy, just south of Bancroft Street, students linger over self-prescribed drinks containing unregulated herbs, hormones, and stimulants.
The UC campus is packed with protestors dressed in the clothing of the mid-1960s—not the garish hippie garb of the Summer of Love but post-Eisenhower conservative, with thin ties, bobby socks, turtlenecks, and a distinct absence of hair-care products. A few sport signs that say “Free Speech.” Several hundred of these student time travelers stand in front of Sproul Hall, drunk on defiance, cheering a folk singer who’s lip-synching “We Shall Overcome.” Something about the scene is wrong. It takes a minute before Sam realizes what it is: no brand logos on any of the clothing or signs.
Some of the surrounding police are wearing uniforms from the same period—1964, according to the bystander who hands Sam a flyer with the headline “Why We Fight.” The remaining forces of the law, loitering in the background of the reenactment, are equipped with more modern gear, like articulated body armor and microwave guns. Sam watches, fascinated, as the police of yore drag those playing protestors away. Mock scuffles unfold; pseudo-students take beatings from foam batons. It’s all quite convincing, except that everyone’s having a good time.
A network inquiry reveals that those present are members of the Northern California chapter of the Society for Collective Memory, a national reenactment group devoted to exploiting a loophole in decades-old legislation known as the Flag Protection Act.
Asked to elaborate, Marilyn explains that gathering to recreate a historical event represents an exception to the law, which generally limits protests to twenty people or less. Though the exemption was slipped into the statute by a Confederacy-crazed senator from North Carolina, groups beyond his constituency of Civil War buffs were quick to recognize the opportunity. So much so, in fact, that there are a number of cases before the courts in which competing historical societies are vying for exclusive performance rights to the more famous demonstrations.
“The most contentious,” Marilyn says, continuing her summary of recent news coverage, “is the fight between the African-American History Project and the Aryan Foundation over the 1963 Lincoln Memorial gathering where Dr. Martin Luther King delivered his ‘I Have a Dream’ speech.”
“Right,” Sam says, more to himself than to Marilyn, “I saw something about that a few weeks ago.”
“If you’re interested in learning more about Dr. King,” Marilyn says, “why not try a Final Days tour of Memphis? Learn what really happened when Dr. King was assassinated, with the help of a Tony Award-winning cast. You’ll see Memphis through the eyes of those who were there that fateful day in April 1968. You’ll visit the restored Lorraine Motel, where you’ll see a reenactment of Dr. King’s death. And afterwards you’ll relax at the famous Peabody Hotel. Built in 1869, this historic landmark is more alive than ever with Southern hospitality. If you act now, you’ll save ten percent off the Final Days weekend package rate of $12,000.”
Sam doesn’t answer. He’s busy scanning the protestors for Amy Ibis. Pressing through the crowd, he makes his way toward the steps of Sproul Hall.
“Nice costume,” jeers a youth in period dress.
Mild laughter bubbles up among the young man’s friends.
Sam glares. His critic grins. Sam kicks him in the shin. He continues onward, his transgression hidden from the cameras by the crowd.
When he looks up, he recognizes Amy standing among a group of protestors under a tree. Even in costume—a knee-length white skirt, a pillbox hat, and a three-quarter-sleeve jacket—she’s more beautiful than her pictures suggest. So much so that he thinks there has to be some secret deficit, a counterweight to the advantages that are hers by birth. She’s staring into space, perhaps bored by the faux protest.
Sam approaches and her eyes find his. A slim scar reaches across her cheek, ever so slight, too indelible perhaps for even the best surgeons. Oddly, it pushes her closer toward perfection.
He stops in front of her, grasping for words.
“You look lost,” she says, as if it’s something to be desired. “It becomes you.”
“I was looking for you.”
“You must be Sam Crane. My father warned me about you.”
Sam can’t help but grin. “My bark is worse than my bite.”
Her answering smile is somewhere between sultry and smirking. She tours him with her eyes. “That’s a sign of remorse,” she says. “The committed strike in silence.”
That she’s teasing him, Sam has no doubt. Whether she’s being mean-spirited or playful, he’s not so sure. “Is that a confession?” he asks.
“Just the truth.”
“I’ve found that whenever someone mentions ‘the truth,’ that person is lying nine times out of ten.”
“I painted by numbers too, when I was five. I grew out of it.”
“What can I say? I’m in touch with my inner child.”
Amy laughs. “Why don’t you just ask me if I killed Xian?”
“That would be rude.”
“A gentleman! You’re more of an anachronism than these demonstrators.”
“While women do tend to favor poison, there are more likely suspects. Your father, for instance
.”
“I suppose that’s why he warned me about you.” Amy appears intrigued by the possibility. “Do you really think he did it?”
“Not really, but maybe he knows who did.”
A pause. Sam wishes he could read her better.
“So Xian was poisoned?” Amy asks.
“Yes. I’d have thought you’d heard.”
“I don’t care for the news. I find it depressing.”
On cue, the demonstrators start chanting.
“I see why they banned this sort of thing,” Sam observes.
“Would you like to interrogate me some place quieter?”
Sam thinks about it for a moment. “Yeah, I would.”
Retracing his steps along Telegraph Avenue, Sam follows Amy to People’s Park, the nearest landing area for air cars. Blasted grass and bent trees show the ravages of jet engines and fan blades. Among the ‘gents who make their homes in the withered brush, most are profoundly deaf.
A black Boeing air sedan is waiting. Gull-wing doors rise in sync like Busby Berkeley cobras. Amy ducks inside; Sam follows.
“This is David, my driver,” she says over the pair of idling engines.
David nods, his overbroad features shown in frightening close-up on the video monitor mounted behind his seat.
Amy sits facing forward; Sam faces backward. He is struck by how appropriate this is for someone always focused on the past.
“You don’t say much,” Amy remarks over the rising drone of the rotors.
“I’m the strong, silent type,” Sam answers.
A cryptic smile appears on Amy’s face. She looks out the window.
Berkeley recedes below. Four outboard Rolls Royce engines tilt horizontal. There’s a moment of weightlessness as the air car drops just before accelerating. Out the portside window, Sam can see the missile turrets atop the Bay Bridge. The water beneath sparkles as if strewn with the ruins of a shattered sun.
Within minutes, the sedan slows over the northwestern edge of San Francisco, already buried in fog. The engines swing vertical and the craft rises for a moment as the rotors slow. Then comes a computer-calibrated drop and a gentle landing.
Oversight Page 10
