Scorpion

by Christian Cantrell

  Most people have heard the term “dead on arrival.” Sometimes it’s called “dead in the field” or “brought in dead.” It refers to a patient being clinically deceased at the time first responders arrive at the scene. Quinn learned that even when someone is DOA, they are still taken to the hospital. And that once CPR is initiated, it must be continued until a physician officially pronounces the patient dead. It doesn’t matter how hopeless it is. It doesn’t matter how cold, or how colorless, or how motionless the body. You still have to watch it all happen from the back of the ambulance—look on as if having left your body while all those needles go in, smell the fumes from all the chemicals, hear all the codes being called and wonder what they mean. Try to answer all the questions while also trying to make yourself wake up because this can’t be real. And then when you get to the hospital, there’s a point at which a new crew takes over and they stop you and you watch the limp little body that is your baby jostle as they run with the gurney and turn a corner and then are gone. It doesn’t matter how many people followed you or met you there. You are alone while you wait for the doctor to come back out, and even though you know that she will not be smiling as she turns the corner, and she will not be overcome by the emotion of being able to give another mother the greatest gift it is possible to give, you still have to stand there and wait and watch down the hall, and worst of all, you still have to hope. And then it happens, and your legs give out, and the people around you are holding you up, and now your mind has to grasp all the things you will never make up for, and all the things you can never take back.

  * * *

  —

  “How are you, kid?” James asks once he is fully resolved. Quinn knows she should hate it when he calls her “kid”—that, according to feminist scripture, it should be degrading and demeaning and disempowering—but despite herself, she’s always liked it. His voice is deep, and it emanates from the speakers beside all four diodes, so he sounds a little bit like God dropping in for a quick pre-op visit. “You know, you didn’t have to go to all this trouble just to see me.”

  “Very funny, Clay,” Quinn says. “Thank you for coming. Or whatever this is.”

  “I wish I could be there in person,” James says. Mounted at the foot of the bed is a spherical camera that provides James with a panoramic view of Quinn’s hospital room. “But you know, I have this job that requires constant exotic international travel. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “How’s Paris?”

  “Shitty weather.”

  “Any time for sightseeing?”

  “Only if you count the hotel and the rendezvous point.”

  “Rendezvous point. How very French of you. Are you meeting your contact in front of the Mona Lisa, or at the top of the Eiffel Tower? Perhaps on a bridge over the Seine?”

  “Can anyone hear us?”

  “Nope. Guaranteed pre- and post-op privacy.”

  “It’s a hackerspace we rented in a converted train depot. It’s called Station F. People say it’s the Silicon Valley of France. Extremely modern. Basically, the complete opposite of what you think of when you think of Paris.”

  “That’s too bad,” Quinn says. “I was picturing poison needles concealed in the tips of baguettes and assassins disguised as mimes.”

  “More like swarms of microdrones and packs of creepy humanoid androids roaming the streets. They even ride the metro.”

  “Are they programmed to be rude to you if you speak to them in English?”

  “I haven’t tried that yet. I’ll let you know.”

  There’s a quick triplet of single-knuckled knocks at Quinn’s door, which then cracks just enough to admit the dark beaming face of Nurse Destine. His thick twists with gold frosted tips and magnificent effervescent grin make him a warm and bracing pre-op companion.

  “Hey, girl,” he croons. Although he is clearly in a hurry, his demeanor still manages to convey calm. “Just wanted to let you know—” He stops when he sees that Quinn is not alone, but rather than sheepishly retreating, he is drawn the rest of the way into the room. “And who is this, Ms. Mitchell?”

  “Destine, this is James. James, this is my nurse, and my new friend, Destine.”

  “Very pleased to meet you,” Destine says. He is not particularly subtle with his full-body appraisal.

  “Likewise,” James replies.

  Destine’s arms cross and his weight shifts. He looks at Quinn as though someone has some explaining to do. “And James is…”

  There’s no other way to put it: “Well, James is my ex.”

  “Ex what? Ex-boyfriend? Ex–friend with benefits? Ex–bowling partner?”

  “Husband.”

  “I see,” Destine replies. The skepticism in his tone says that he knows a thing or two about exes. “Well, I might as well check your drip while I’m here.”

  James Claiborne’s composition momentarily becomes exactly 25 percent less dense as Destine intersects one of the diode’s emissions. The nurse winces as he crosses its path, as though burned by the laser.

  “I swear, one of these days that thing is going to shine right in my eye and blind me and I’m going to sue this place for a zillion dollars and retire to Bora Bora wearing a sexy blinged-out eye patch.”

  The prospect is so enticing that he punctuates his prophecy with a sassy snap. Quinn and James are duly amused.

  “Just ignore me,” Destine continues as he adjusts Quinn’s drip. “Act like I’m not even here.”

  But Destine is clearly not in the business of being ignored, which, even from four thousand miles away, James seems to pick up on.

  “Destine,” James says. “That’s an unusual name.”

  “Thank you,” Destine says primly. “I have a twin sister named Destin-y.”

  “That’s cute,” Quinn says.

  “The Miami-Dade public school system didn’t think so,” the nurse counters. “I can’t tell you how many times we’ve been mixed up. Even the IRS doesn’t seem to know we’re two different people.”

  “Which one of you is the evil twin?” James asks.

  Destine smiles at Quinn. “I like this guy,” he says. “You two are going to get back together. I can feel it.” This time, he has the foresight to duck under the laser projection. “The doctor will be ready for you in about five minutes, sweetheart. James, it was a pleasure meeting you, and you’re welcome to see her again in post-op.”

  “Take good care of her,” James says.

  Destine pulls open the door a crack. “You do the same,” he tosses back, and with a quick furtive wink, he slips through.

  “I can see you’re in good hands,” James says.

  “I really do wish you were here,” Quinn tells her ex-husband. She had no idea that was about to come out of her mouth, but something else is taking control right now. In less than five minutes she is going to be under general anesthesia, and whenever you go completely under, there is a chance—however minor—of crashing and not waking up.

  “I do, too,” James says. “I’ll come see you as soon as I’m back.”

  “When will that be?”

  “Could be as early as tomorrow. Depends on how things go today. I’m pretty sure this whole thing is a dead end, so I think we’ll be in and out.”

  “Who are you meeting, anyway?”

  “Trust me. You don’t want to hear about it.”

  “No, I do,” Quinn says imploringly. “I’m nervous and I have to pee and this needle hurts. I need something to distract me for the next…” She checks her handset on the bed beside her. “Three minutes and forty-five seconds.”

  “OK,” James says. “For your ears only, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “We’re out here making contact with a Japanese scientist who claims he has technology that can send data through time. ‘Time transmission,’ he calls it.”r />
  “What?” Quinn feels as though everything has just shifted. She pushes herself up in bed as if the new perspective might help her reestablish her bearings.

  “That was my reaction, too,” James says. “But whatever he gave us was apparently compelling enough for Moretti to send a team out here to vet him.”

  “Moretti sent you?”

  “The Italian Stallion himself. He said he would’ve sent you if you weren’t on medical leave. Apparently, you’re in his inner circle now.”

  “What exactly do you mean by vet?”

  “We’re supervising an experiment this guy says will prove the technology works. He’s downstairs testing his equipment now.”

  “What kind of experiment?”

  “You’re not going to believe me.”

  “Try me.”

  “The team in Langley has some kind of an empty, sealed container under full surveillance. Our guy here is supposedly going to send a message back in time, and apparently that message is going to appear in the sealed container when we open it. If it works, I guess he’s either telling the truth or he’s a hell of a magician. My guess is that he’s neither, and we’ll all be flying home cargo-class tonight.”

  “I don’t understand,” Quinn says. “How does that prove anything?”

  “The theory is that he’s going to send a message to whoever sealed the container sometime in the past, telling him to leave something inside. Of course, that’s impossible since we already have footage of the guy sealing it and not putting anything inside.” Something seems to occur to James that he hadn’t thought of before. “I guess the footage could spontaneously change. I don’t know. It’s obviously all bullshit, but apparently the possibility of fucking with time is way too enticing for the agency not to at least follow up on.”

  “James,” Quinn says. “Listen to me very carefully. You have to send me everything you have on this guy. Right now.”

  “What’s going on with you?” James asks. “You look terrified.”

  “Everything. OK? Promise me.”

  “Of course. I have to talk to Moretti first, but—”

  “No. Don’t. Don’t talk to anyone. Just send everything you have. Right now. You have to promise me.”

  The hologram glitches and James turns to look behind him. Quinn sees him nod and wave.

  “Quinn, I have to go. We’re about to—”

  James Claiborne freezes, glitches a few more times, and then is replaced with the 3D rotating MediPresence logo.

  “Shit!”

  Quinn detaches the remote from the rail and starts looking for a way to reconnect. When Destine knocks and reenters, Quinn does not look up.

  “Hey-hey, girlfriend. Did you two say your goodbyes?”

  “We got disconnected,” Quinn says. She sees that Destine is holding a capped syringe. “How do I reconnect?”

  “It’s the MRIs upstairs,” Destine explains. He is bedside now, his fingers locating the injection port in the IV tube. “Whenever more than one of them spins up at the same time, the MediPresence systems go berserk. Usually people start looking like Picasso paintings.”

  “Don’t do that yet,” Quinn says. The cap is off and lying on the blanket beside her leg, and Destine is lining up the needle. “I have to reconnect.”

  “Darling, we can’t wait. The doctor is—”

  He is stopped by a piercing broadcast from Quinn’s handset. Even though it is on Do Not Disturb, it is buzzing angrily, and notifications are continuously manifesting. Destine’s hand does not move as Quinn drops the remote and scoops up her phone.

  “Get me out of here,” she says. She is scrolling and pausing, scrolling and pausing. “Get me out of here now.”

  “Darling, you have radar reflectors in your boob. They can’t stay there.”

  “Now!”

  “Settle down, sweetheart. Tell me what’s going on.”

  “There’s been a nuclear attack.”

  Destine releases the injection port and covers his mouth. “Oh my God. Where?”

  Quinn looks up. The nurse lowers himself onto the bed beside Quinn’s legs. Quinn is having trouble breathing.

  “Paris,” she chokes, and then begins to sob.

  31

  PLUSHIES, CATS, AND PACKING

  JIJI CROUCHES ATOP an intricate, carpeted, multilevel cat tower in the corner of Henrietta’s bedroom. He is engaged and attentive, transfixed by her every action, his paws drawn in beneath him and his long, lean tail dangling and twitching.

  Three or more feet above the floor is a good place for Jiji to be, considering Henrietta Yi is the proud mother of, at last count, just north of nine hundred vibrant plushies. They are arranged in stadium seating along all four walls, stacked from carpeted floor to popcorn ceiling, and sorted according to color in strict spectral order. Most are Pokémon, though the complete casts of Zelda, Mario, Sonic the Hedgehog, and Angry Birds are harmoniously commingled. There are gaps in the prismatic mosaic for a single window obscured by bamboo slats, the bedroom, closet, and bathroom doors, and Henrietta’s bed with its yellow Pikachu throw pillows and the three incrementally increasing, meandering Zs mounted up the wall at the head. Jiji’s cat tower is like a sapling that has managed to penetrate the thick layer of bright, fuzzy underbrush in order to stretch toward the overhead Poké Ball light. Just to get to the lowest platform, he has to clear a good three or four rows of exotic, implausible creatures as they transition in hue from blue to indigo.

  Henrietta’s collecting and incessant organizing resumed after she moved from Geneva, where she was leading particle detector backlog research at the LHC, to Northern Virginia to work for Alessandro Moretti at the CIA. Her first new plush toy since she left home for college was an especially limited Pokémon collectible known as Mimikyu. Mimikyu’s backstory had always fascinated Henrietta. It is a mysterious Pokémon that spends its entire life mimicking Pikachu by hiding beneath a childish costume—a tiny, secretive creature with an extremely deadly nature attempting to masquerade as everyone’s favorite.

  There are boxes and envelopes waiting for Henrietta at the foot of her front door almost every day when she gets home from work, and about once a week, she tears down the entire collection and fastidiously builds it back up. She maintains a database of every Pokémon plush ever made; has bots monitoring all the best sites, making trades and placing bids; uses AI to predict the time, region, and contents of the next drop. Posts photos and rumors online under half a dozen contrived and meticulously maintained identities. Rather than working toward a Nobel Prize, Henrietta occupies her prolific mind with the mantra “Gotta catch ’em all.”

  But her armada of online shopping agents and bots have now all been disabled. Tomorrow, there will not be any new loot to add to her collection, nor any reason to update her database. Today, Henrietta is packing.

  Her bag is open on her bed, and between a compact assortment of underwear and a stack of neatly pressed and folded dresses, she finds a depression sufficient for a pouch of tightly wound cables and dongles. The suitcase is brand-new, purchased from AliExpress just for this trip. Both sides of the cherry-blossom-pink, hard-shell case are emblazoned with the subtly dazed Hello Kitty face. The feline’s pure and virtuous eyes are small plasma-dot screens that occasionally blink and search from side to side, and the pattern of her iconic bow is customizable through an app on Henrietta’s phone. Last night, Henrietta upgraded the firmware, then trained her new case on her exact body shape and gait so that it would follow her around like a newly hatched chick.

  Henrietta’s metaspecs are aglitter, and she lifts her arm and checks the inside of her wrist, where there is a long, scrollable, virtual list. As she checks “Cables and dongles” off, prompting a bright and reassuring chime, she winces. There are puffy red streaks of fresh cat scratches beneath the hologram, and for a moment, Henrietta is frozen, her eyes close
d and her fist clenched. After the pain and residual anger have passed, she shakes her arm to dismiss the to-do app.

  “I’m putting you in charge, Jiji,” Henrietta announces. “What’s next?”

  Jiji ceases cleaning between the pads of his front paw, opens his eyes, and blinks.

  “Well?” Henrietta prompts. “I’m waiting.”