by Mark Budz
Yukawa shook his head politely. "I'm not familiar with the term."
"Phenotypic expression of images with social and/or cultural content," al-Fayoumi said. How to explain? Tongue-tied, he groped for the right words.
“Architecture parlante," Yukawa mused after a moment.
Al-Fayoumi found himself at a loss.
"It's an architectural term for a building taking on the physical form of the task it's designed to do," Yukawa explained. "For example, a donut shop constructed in the shape of a donut. Or, in the case of electronic skin, programmable matter adopting the shape of acquired images."
"Inherited," al-Fayoumi said.
Yukawa raised one brow, more puzzled than skeptical. "Inherited from what?" he said.
"A parent image. Images that have the same digitype but different iconotypes, the way cells with the same genotype can have a different phenotype."
"Lamarckian inheritance," Yukawa said with a sly smile. "The expression of acquired characteristics. In this case electronic images instead of a physical alteration or learned behavior."
Al-Fayoumi nodded. His throat felt tight and dry. He didn't trust himself to speak.
Yukawa pursed his lips thoughtfully. "What's the mechanism for inheritance?" he said. "How are the images, the idolons, transmitted?"
Al-Fayoumi swallowed. Had he already revealed too much? "I'm not sure."
Yukawa seemed to accept this at face value. He returned his attention to the batch of test flies. "Do the images ever change? Evolve?"
"Every few generations a new variant appears," al- Fayoumi said.
"In response to what?" Yakuwa said. "The environment, or some other stimulus?"
Al-Fayoumi hesitated, reluctant to say more. He was venturing into terra incognita and unwilling to commit himself to speculations that could be held against him. A simple slip of the tongue, no different than that of a knife.
Mesmerized by the flies, Yukawa didn't seem to notice. The polished lenses of his spectacles flickered. "Tell me," he said. "Have you ever observed any quantum effects in the idolons?"
Al-Fayoumi blinked. "How do you mean?"
Yukawa waved one hand casually, implying that they were speaking off the cuff now, engaging in speculation. "Superposition of states, for example. The same idolon simultaneously possessing several different images or values. Eigenstates, to be precise."
Al-Fouyami frowned and moistened his lips. "You mean images that appear to be different are really just different expressions of the same image? The way a photon is in two places at once until it collapses into a location."
"Exactly. When an idolon is in one state, it might look different from when it's in another state. That might explain the sudden appearance of a new image; it could be the same image collapsing into a different state."
As opposed to a mutation. Yukawa was suggesting a different expression of the same image with higher or lower probabilities of appearing. That still didn't explain how the images were transmitted, but—
"Entangled inheritance is another topic we're interested in. EPR effects," Yukawa said, as if anticipating his train of thought. "The instantaneous transmission and expression of information in programmable matter over long distances."
EPR. Einstein-Podolsky-Rosen paradox. Sometimes referred to as “spooky action" at a distance, where quantum-entangled particles communicated with one another instantly no matter how far apart they were.
"You think that might be a possible mechanism for the transmission of the images?" al-Fayoumi asked.
"The philm project we're currently developing," Yukawa said, "has a shared social component. We're interested in mathematical tools, software applications if you will, that can be used to predict the habits, tendencies, and behavior of groupware within a structural inheritance system. One that uses programmable matter to express phenotype."
Al-Fayoumi's brow pinched. "You want people waring the same philm to be able to inherit and express specific acquired traits?"
"In this case the traits would be images," Yukawa sad, "and any three-dimensional component they code for."
Al-Fayoumi rubbed his jaw. "What would be the source of these traits?"
"Existing philm. Or new source philm that acts as a template for new versions and releases."
"So the inheritance would be directed," al-Fayoumi said. "Engineered."
"Yes."
"By whom?"
Yukawa shrugged. "Clearly, I can't get into specifics. The details are proprietary and confidential, subject to strict nondisclosure. All I can say is that it involves electronic skin with a single quantum state, so that spatially separated portions of the 'skin are quantum-entangled."
"Able to share information," al-Fayoumi said.
Yukawa nodded. "And influence one another."
Al-Fouyami started to pace, caught himself, stopped. "What exactly do you want from me?"
"You would be formulating inheritance models and helping cut the source code to manage the emergent shareware."
In other words, quantum inheritance. The instantaneous transmission of phenotype from one person to another.
Yukawa regarded him with calculated intensity. "Are you interested?"
Al-Fayoumi cleared his throat. "Why me?"
"I should think that would be obvious. You are one of the few scientists who is doing any work in non-Darwinian inheritance, especially when it comes to the epigenetic transmission of images."
"How much time would I have?"
Yukawa smiled, baring exquisitely lacquered teeth. "I take it that's a yes."
Al-Fayoumi hollowed his cheeks and nodded.
_______
When Yukawa had gone, al-Fayoumi went back to his office. He turned down the main lights and watched a new batch of maggots seethe under the heat lamps.
Plausible deniability. That was the reason Yukawa had come to him. If there was a problem, if the project failed, Yukawa could blame him. He would make a convenient scapegoat.
Why had he agreed? He hadn't intended to. He had planned to politely decline, a courteous thanks but no thanks.
Fear. That was why. He'd been afraid Yukawa would discredit him. Not publicly, but behind his back; a well-placed word here or there and his career would be over. He'd had no choice.
He was being set up, al-Fayoumi realized. But what for?
18
Into the Trenches.
Before making the trip below sea level, into the excavated streets, Marta bought a pair of cheap, foreign, and probably stolen spex from a street vendor. The spex cost twice the going rate because she needed a pair with built-in GPS.
Marta checked for cops, then headed north on foot, first along Zmudowski, then Sunset, following the curve of the beaches and the houses piled against the crumbling seawall like cliff dwellings. The southernmost edge of the Trenches, where the streets started to slope down into the landfill, was marked by an intricate network of levees, dams, sump pumps, and drainage pipes designed to hold high tides and storm surges at bay. She skirted the old desalination plant that still supplied water to the Flats.
The buildings went from above ground to below ground, forming unbroken walls on either side of the street...
Squeezing her, Marta thought. Molding her into a another shape—another person. No different from 'skin, or the water divination that Nguyet used to supposedly transform herself.
Marta had never bought into the spiritual nature of water. The belief that water responded directly to prayers, thoughts, or ideas by forming differently shaped crystalline structures seemed ridiculous.
"People are mostly water," Nguyet argued. "Sixty percent or more. If I change the character of the water in me, I change my character." To her it was obvious. A direct one-to-one correlation.
Marta had seen the pictures, of course. The books Nguyet used to perform the divination process showed dozens of crystals, how there was a particular shape, or family of shapes, for different emotions and states of balance or imbalance. Even words li
ke "love," "peace," and "hate" equated to a particular shape. The crystals were no different than runes, I Ching hexagrams, or the signs of the Zodiac when it came to analyzing oneself, answering questions, and deciding on a particular course of action. Except that a person could influence events by realigning their physical being.
"How can water respond to words?" Marta had once asked. "It can't read or hear. So how does it know what message you're sending?"
"Because it's an expression of the same universal consciousness we are all part of."
If the logic behind the prayer crystals was flawed, then the metaphysics at the heart of them were even more mysterious and idiosyncratic. The exact same word, or expression, in different languages could produce different crystalline shapes. Two different types of stimuli—music or words—could supposedly produce the same, or similar-shaped, crystals.
"Everything is connected," Nguyet had told her. "If I am in balance, then the world around me will be in balance. More harmonious."
Marta queried the GPS indicator on her spex and turned down a side street covered by a barrel vault. Architectural graphene stretched tight over the half pipe kludged together out of Kevlex and aluminum tubing.
The Flats were beginning to wind down for the night. Most of the retail outlets had closed. Marta passed a restored clothing store and an Art Brico gallery, found-art jewelry fashioned out of bits of excavated debris. The bars were still open, the late-night clubs and cafes, spilling music, laughter, and dank conversation into the night air.
Marta wondered if the person on the radio had been Concetta. Was the shortwave her way of letting them know she was alive, and to tell them how to get in touch with her?
Marta's heart stuttered when a red indicator on her spex started to blink. Not far now—only a couple of hundred meters. With each step, the light blinked faster and her pulse sped up to keep pace. When the coordinates matched the ones she had entered earlier, the LED glowed solid green.
She stood in front of a store that appeared to be a combination pawnshop and mini flea mart. A sign on the window said EGGED, ROWED, AND OLE GOODS. Whatever that meant.
Was Concetta inside, waiting for her?
She raised her hand—it felt heavy as concrete— and rapped on the door. Ten seconds passed, twenty, with no answer. Even the door remained silent. Maybe it wasn't smart, or maybe it was just being tight-lipped after closing up for the night.
What if she'd gotten the coordinates wrong? Misheard, miscopied, or misentered them?
Sweat broke out on the nape of her neck. Her face felt hot. There was no way to replay the broadcast. If she'd misheard, the information was lost.
She tried the handle, a sort of bone-and-metal claw. It felt like shaking hands with a movie prop, some grade-B prosthesis animated by wires and gears. To her surprise, the hand tightened around hers and tinny laughter spilled from a speaker embedded in the door.
"Welcome," a voice said. "Come in."
Mechanical fingers gripped her. She twisted her hand to free it, but the prosthesis turned with her. Then a latch clicked, the door swung open, and the hand let go, freeing her to enter the shop.
A carnival game, Marta thought. A fun-house gimmick. She adjusted the power on the spex, maxed the night-vision setting, and looked around.
The shop was gloomy, lighted only by the sputtering neon of the sign branded onto the window. She heard water dripping, the steady plink plink of seepage collecting in an underground tank. Glass display cases, sheet-metal cabinets, and adjustable shelves lined the walls of the room. Shadows cob-webbed the contents: a stuffed elephant here, a wooden train there, a clown-faced jack-in-the-box. Kevlex fiber mesh hung from the ceiling, heavy with detritus. The air felt puffy, swollen. It pressed against her, tender and inflamed.
"Hello?" It sounded as if a thick cotton pillow was pressed against her mouth, muffling her voice.
No answer.
"Concetta..."
"I'm not interested in your name." The harsh whisper scraped out of the darkness, choking her off. "Or the reason you're here."
Marta's breath snagged on her vocal cords. Finally tore free. "There's something you should know. I'm not—"
"Have faith," the voice said.
"All right." She wet her lips.
"Have faith..." The voice paused, expectant.
Her mind raced. Have faith in what? In who? Then, it came to her.
"Become a true believer," she said, haltingly repeating the message. "And all your prayers will be forgiven."
The room seemed to exhale. "This way," the voice said.
A grainy rectangle of light, roughly the size and shape of a door, appeared three or four meters to her right.
Taking a breath, Marta walked toward the opening. She could see a chair inside the other room, facing a luminous green wall crisscrossed by abstract lines reminiscent of Jackson Pollock or the ghosts of high-energy particles.
Several steps from the door, a fuzzy silhouette appeared behind the wall. The wall wasn't solid, she realized, but some sort of hospital green Kevlex or cellophane sheet plastic. The person behind it moved slowly, meticulously, with precise, almost mechanical, movements.
The room itself was small, not much larger than a closet. No LEDs or bulbs of any kind. The only light came through the membrane in front of her.
"Close the door."
She pulled the door shut behind her. Past the front edge of the chair, two holes in the curtain stared at her. Not holes, exactly, but openings to tubes of some kind, spaced about twenty-five centimeters apart. "Are you scared?"
She nodded, her tongue dry and shrunken. "You should be."
Why? she wanted to ask. But the question cowered in her mouth.
"I'm not here to reassure you," the man said. At least she thought it was a man, but the voice was clipped, as clockwork as his movements.
Something clicked, then hissed, on the other side of the curtain. A rubber pressure seal.
"Sit down. Facing the screen."
Marta slid onto the chair. The legs scraped on naked concrete. The silhouette took a seat directly in front of her so that together they formed a single shadow between them—an interstitial ghost where their lives met.
"Place your hands in the gloves."
Marta leaned forward and slid her hand into the holes. It was like reaching into the hollow arms of a space suit.
"All the way," the voice said. "As far as you can."
Marta reached deeper and encountered gloves. She wriggled her fingers in, all the way to the tips. Something round and cold pressed snugly into the palm of her right hand, nestling there like a coin.
"Good." The man seemed satisfied. "Don't move."
His hands took hers, probing. He found the wafer and pressed it firmly into place.
He was a doctor, she realized, used to dealing with patients. His examination was experienced, his movements confident. Any quivering came from her, not him.
Why did she need to be examined? Was he looking for something in particular or was this standard operating procedure?
"You have beautiful bone structure. Very delicate."
Was this a compliment, or a clinical observation detached of emotion and judgment? Before she could answer she felt a brief, needle-sharp prick in her palm. Out of reflex she tried to curl her fingers around the sliver of pain.
Her fingers refused to move. They felt numb, leaden. She jerked back, away from the curtain, but he had cuffed her by the wrists, metal bands holding her securely in place.
Panic seized her.
"Relax," the man said. He caressed her hands through the gloves, stroking them the way he would a dying animal. "This won't take long. A few minutes of discomfort. Nothing more."
She couldn't speak, couldn't cry out. Chemical scissors had cut the neural circuit that transmuted thought into sound.
Her mouth tingled.
Poison, she thought.
The tingling spread, a numb flush that started in her extremities and worked
its way inward. Soon it would infiltrate her chest. When it did her heart would stop, fall suddenly and irrevocably silent.
Her mind thrashed. She opened her mouth to speak, and found that she couldn't breathe. A vacuum had formed in her lungs.
"That's it," the man said. "Not so bad. It will be worse if you fail to make your next connection. Fatal, I'm afraid. You would do well to remember that."
In other words, there was no turning back. She was committed. The only way out was forward.
He released her hands. Sensation flooded back into them. Her lungs heaved and she coughed, clearing her throat of saliva, snot, tears.
Abruptly the shadow stood, becoming lighter and more diffuse. Shaken, Marta withdrew her hands. Her palm was fine, no sign of injury. "What happens now?" she managed.
"Go." The voice softened to gray velour. "You have forty-eight hours to make contact. After that..."
"Go where?" she asked. "Contact who?"
There was no response. The shadow spread into a hazy vignette, then dispersed altogether. The glow behind the partition dimmed, engulfing her in gangrenous, green-tinged darkness.
Marta stood, pushing the chair back with her legs, and groped her way to the door. She fumbled with the latch, then staggered blindly into the shop. Half a minute later she found herself standing in the street, gasping for air and looking giddily around her.
She couldn't go home. Not now, maybe never. She couldn't risk putting her father, or Nguyet, in danger. She might expose them to whatever she'd been injected with. Until she knew what it was, what she was supposed to do, she couldn't go near them.
Why hadn't the man told her something? Anything? How did he expect her to do the right thing?
A shelter, she decided. She could spend the night there. In the morning, she'd get in touch with Sister Giselle. Then she'd go to the Get Reel and collect whatever back pay Jhon owed her.
And after that?
Have faith. There wasn't much else she could do.
19
Steam billowed up from a manhole and slipped along the street, a white finger working its way under the dark elastic of the night.
From his unmarked car, parked down the street from the North Beach apartment building, van Dijk watched the mist slink into an alleyway, dim the LED array on a security light, and fondle the skirts of a Betty Boop ad for Hongtasan cigarettes.
