“Fuck you up, bitch.”
“It’s easier to change the subject than to change your sex.”
Eric was ready to explode, his ears bright red. One of the other guys spoke up: “Come on, dude, she’s just messin’ with you.”
“Then she better shut her fucking mouth before I do it for her.”
Shifting her attention to the other boy, Maddy studied his features, his body rhythms, and said, “You’ve been feeling tired, haven’t you?”
“What? Shut up, I’m not talking to you.”
“Seriously, how’s your game?”
“My game?”
“You’ve been skipping practice, right?”
“What’re you, stalking me?”
“I don’t have to—your hair’s not bleached to the root, and your hands aren’t pruned. Also, you’ve lost weight recently. It shows first in the face, around the eyes. You’re cold all the time. And your color’s funky—haven’t you noticed? You’re a ghost, kid.”
“Yeah, so I’ve had the flu, so what?”
“No. This has been going on too long for that. Your blood cells are destroying themselves.”
“Are you serious, you crazy bitch?”
“Idiopathic autoimmune hemolytic anemia—I’d bet on it. You should go to the doctor before you have a massive coronary.”
“What! Yeah, like I’m gonna go to the doctor because—”
“You should. Just to rule out leukemia. Or AIDS.”
“Give me a break.”
“And Eric? It’s not a crime to be into water sports. But you have to find someone your own age. Don’t obsess about the past, and try not to abuse the Internet—you never know who might be watching.”
With the crowd laughing and jeering him, Eric went berserk, fighting the intervening boys to get at her. Maddy felt a hand on her arm, gently pulling her out of line.
“Come on,” said Stephanie. “You should get out of here.”
“What do you care?” Maddy said, jerking free and running from the cafeteria.
Sobbing, she left the building and fled across the Great Lawn, drawing stares from students and the attention of faculty yard monitors, who gave chase. Seeking a restroom, Maddy ducked indoors and passed bright classrooms with row after row of identical desks … and it suddenly seemed to her that the people behind those desks were also identical, all reading identical books, thinking identical thoughts. Robots. Disposable, interchangeable robots. Existing only to perpetuate the status quo.
Maddy had been a good little robot, too. Only now she was defective, she didn’t fit in. They used euphemisms like special and gifted, but what they really meant was defective. Unstable. And it was no big mystery what happened to defective machines: They got thrown away.
Maddy crashed through the office doors and burst in on Principal Batrachian. He was in a conference with several teachers, and they all jumped up in surprise as Maddy vaulted over his desk and plunged a cafeteria fork into their principal’s fat throat.
As they wrestled her off, Maddy was babbling unintelligibly about heavy isotopes, atomic decay, and planned obsolescence. It took three burly EMTs to get her to the ambulance.
SEVENTEEN
RETURN TO SENDER
THE hospital again. Elvis on the speakers (or was it just in her head?), singing “Return to Sender.”
Wheeled around on a gurney, dipping in and out of consciousness, Maddy could tell at once that nobody at Braintree was surprised to see her. The doctors all had the sympathetic, slightly condescending manner of people who were not accustomed to being proven wrong. Dr. Stevens loomed overhead, talking in slow motion.
“Well, Mr. and Mrs. Grant, just as we anticipated might happen, your daughter Madeline has experienced a bit of difficulty adapting to the RCA interface. It’s nothing to be alarmed about—I’m confident that with the right conditioning, we can get her back on track. It’s just a matter of fine-tuning the program to distribute her psychic workload more evenly. Avert this kind of crisis in the future by repeatedly inducing the appropriate response in a controlled environment. A conditioned reflex. For that reason, it’s very important that we keep her here at the facility—I wouldn’t recommend outpatient therapy again until we have greater confidence in her ability to cope.”
“Dear God. How long do you think she’ll have to stay here this time?”
“Well, it could be worse. If it had gone to court, she could have been permanently institutionalized. Short of that, I do think an open-ended commitment of at least six months would be conservative.”
“Six months!” cried Mrs. Grant.
The doctor said, “I realize it’s difficult, but this is the time when intervention can make the most difference in your daughter’s recovery. Her damaged cortex is knitting right now, generating new synaptic pathways that will decide her personality for the rest of her life. Once her brain fully incorporates the implant, it will be much harder to modify. Whatever glitches still exist, she’ll have to live with them permanently. And these things can be progressive, leading to a complete mental breakdown, as we’ve just seen. Better to get it right the first time.”
“If you’d gotten it right the first time, I wouldn’t be back in here.”
“Well! Good morning, Maddy. Feeling better, I hope?”
“Jeez, Doc, give me a chance to wake up. Hi Mom, hi Dad. How long have you guys been here?”
“Hi, baby. All night—we rode with you. Are you okay?”
“I think so. I’m not quite sure what I’m doing here. What was that about six months?”
“Dr. Stevens was just telling us that they’d like you to stay here for another six months of therapy. Inpatient this time. Do you understand?”
“Yeah … I think so …”
“What do you think of that? Your dad and I hate the idea, but the doctor thinks it could make a lot of difference. You can call us anytime you want, and we’ll drive right over. We won’t make you do it if you don’t want to.”
Maddy thought about it.
“If it’ll mean I don’t have to go back to school.”
BY the next day, Maddy felt better already. Her head was perfectly, beautifully clear. She had slept soundly, and for the first time all week she could really hear herself think. When Dr. Stevens and Dr. Plummer came in, she said, “Hey, I feel pretty good. What if I’m all better? Do I still have to stay here for six months?”
Dr. Stevens said, “Actually, Maddy, that’s what we’re here to talk to you about.”
Dr. Plummer placed a thick file folder in Maddy’s lap. It had her name on it.
“What’s this?”
He said, “Open it up and take a look.”
Maddy opened the folder. Inside was a sheaf of documents, a plastic billfold, a zipper bag containing a set of keys and a fancy cell phone, and a sleek device that resembled a tiny computer modem.
“What is all this?”
“It’s yours. Take a look.”
Maddy opened the wallet and was a bit disconcerted to see a brand-new photo ID with an unflattering picture of herself. She couldn’t remember ever having that picture taken. Then again, she didn’t remember a lot of things. More intriguing was the money in the wallet, a wad of twenties—at least a couple of hundred bucks—and a credit card. Like the ID, the credit card had her name on it. There it was, in big, embossed letters: MADELINE Z. GRANT. Which was quite interesting because Maddy was fairly certain she would remember if she’d ever owned a credit card. It was something she’d been bugging her mother about for years.
“What’s this for?” she asked.
“Well,” said Dr. Plummer, “you may be glad to know that your next phase of treatment doesn’t involve puzzles or tests or doctors poking at you. It doesn’t involve living here at the hospital at all. That kind of clinical examination can no longer tell us what we really need to know, which is how that new brain of yours responds to real-world stimuli. In other words: field-testing.”
“Wait—didn’t we just try
that?”
“We did, but in sending you home, we assumed it would reduce your stress—that the benefits of familiarity would outweigh the risk. Unfortunately, we were wrong.”
“Great.”
“This time, we’d like to apply similar stresses, but in a controlled way, strictly monitored, with fail-safes in place to prevent another overload. So, starting tomorrow, you’ll be transferred to an off-site treatment facility, our Practical Recovery Unit, where you can explore your potential more effectively. In a real-world situation.”
“Meaning what, exactly?”
“Meaning you’ll essentially be living independently, in a private dormitory. We’ll be tracking your progress via this wireless modem, but you’ll have considerable discretion over the use of your time … and money. That being the major point of the exercise.”
Dr. Stevens continued, “Before you get too excited, keep in mind that maintaining proficiency in your studies is part of your therapy, as is managing your day-to-day living expenses. The debit account is just a loan until you find a job, after which you must establish a payment schedule as part of your budget. The whole program is loaded into your PDA.”
“What if I don’t pay? I’m still a minor—what if I just go nuts with the card and party my brains out?”
“That will indicate to us that your impulse-control center is not being properly stimulated. We would have to find out why, and that could require intensive sessions in the fMRI lab—perhaps even more surgery.”
Ugh—Maddy’s worst experiences in the hospital involved that dreaded fMRI machine. Being strapped down in a narrow tube for hours on end, her head held in a vise, as the thing magnetically scoured her brain.
“I get it. No thanks, I’d rather count my pennies.”
“Good. So you’re interested?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Of course you do—the program’s purely voluntary.”
“What happens if I don’t do it?”
“A Thorazine drip and indefinite clinical confinement.”
“Where do I sign up?”
EIGHTEEN
HARMONY
THE next morning, Maddy ate a big breakfast of sausages, eggs, and blueberry pancakes, and was accompanied by Dr. Stevens to a waiting van.
“Where exactly am I going?”
“The town of Harmony. It’s not far—we’re on the outskirts here, about ten miles away I’d say. It used to be an industrial area, but in recent years it was bought up by developers and has been transformed into a very picturesque planned community.”
“Okay, good. Well … bye, then, Dr. Stevens.”
“Bye, Maddy. Have a good trip, and remember to just relax; stay centered. Everything you’ll need to know is on your PDA. We’ll be watching you, so don’t worry.”
“Thanks. I’m fine.”
Dr. Stevens slammed the door and waved as the van took off.
The silver cube of the clinic vanished in the trees as they drove down a long, descending road into the valley. It was a very scenic drive, densely forested on either side. In fact, the road was pretty rugged, unpaved and deeply rutted in spots, more like a logging trail than an actual highway. There were no signs and numerous twists and turns, but the driver seemed to know where he was going. He was a startled-looking man with receding hair and a double chin, though he was neither old nor fat. His name tag read: DR. RUDY MCGURK.
“Is this a shortcut?” Maddy asked.
“Yeah—it’s restricted access. DARPA money. All this back in here is private, government property.”
“Isn’t that an oxymoron?”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“I know—you think I’m stupid or something. I just didn’t hear you.”
“Private, government? Government generally means public.”
“Not here it don’t, sis.”
The air became hazy, filtering the sunlight and washing out the shadows. There seemed to be a greasy, sooty film over everything—and a smell: rotten eggs.
“What’s that smell?” Maddy asked.
“Coal fire,” Rudy said. “Used to be a strip mine around here, until it had to be abandoned.”
“The fire’s still burning?”
“Oh, it’ll probably go for the next thousand years. It’s burning away underground, following the coal seam.”
“Is that safe?”
“Well, every now and again a sinkhole might open up in the fairway, but other than that, you’d never know it was there. Actually, it creates an interesting thermal effect—there’s no snow accumulation, and the valley stays fairly temperate all winter long, so it’s kind of a golfer’s paradise.”
“What about, like, toxic gases?”
“I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“Oh yeah? Then what about these guys?”
They had come to a fenced checkpoint with concrete barricades and a guard station. Guards in gas masks waved them through.
“Those are just to filter out the dust,” Rudy assured her.
Beyond the fence, it was all smooth sailing, the van carried along on a ribbon of freshly laid asphalt. The trees thinned, becoming first denuded and scrawny, then mere blackened skeletons.
Burnt-over woods gave way to a smoggy vista of gray rubble, a blasted moonscape that abruptly changed to park-land, the rolling green sprawl of a golf course. It still stank. Fumes hung heavy in the air, and here and there were dead zones: staked-off patches of smoldering, scorched earth, with warning signs like orange pirate flags.
Out of nowhere, houses appeared, a pristine residential area. Block after block of identical prefabricated units, with people mowing lawns and washing cars. There was a lot of new construction going on—the place was booming.
“Yeesh,” Maddy said, “who would want to live here?”
“I live here,” Rudy said.
“Oh. Sorry.”
“We bought one of the last lots, and were lucky to get it. There’s no property tax, plus you’ve got year-round golfing, tennis, shopping—”
“It’s great. Absolutely. I was just being stupid.”
The town center consisted of a large shopping plaza radiating from an old mine complex, with a restored railcar and a huge central structure like a tin-roofed cathedral. The sign on it read, MUSEUM OF INDUSTRY AND CULTURE.
Shiny bright though it appeared, the village was devoid of character, if not actually grim. Maddy thought Rudy McGurk and Chandra Stevens must have a pretty odd notion of the picturesque. Aside from the mine complex, it was all plastic. There had been obvious efforts to make it quaint—plantings and antique streetlights and Norman Rockwell façades for the chain stores—but nothing could disguise the essential hollowness at its core. At least the air was clearer, or maybe she was just getting used to it.
Dr. Stevens had been right about one thing: Downtown was quiet—quiet as a Sunday morning. The shopping plaza looked closed; there was no traffic to speak of and few pedestrians in sight.
The van pulled up in front of a budget motel advertising weekly rates. It wasn’t until the driver set the emergency brake and started getting out that Maddy realized they had arrived.
“Wait—what’s this?”
“We’re here,” Rudy said. “All ashore that’s going ashore.”
“Here? This motel?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Slightly unnerved, Maddy allowed herself to be led through the door into the lobby. What was there to say about it? It was a motel lobby, with generic motel-lobby furniture and motel-lobby pictures on the walls. Nothing to suggest it was a halfway house for potentially violent headcases. She couldn’t decide if that was good or bad.
There was a frosted-glass window labeled CHECK IN. Rudy pressed a buzzer, and the glass slid back, revealing a burly Middle-Eastern woman. Smiling, the woman said, “Ah, yes,” and took Maddy’s documents. “Welcome to Harmony Suites. I hope you enjoy your stay with us.” Typing something into the computer, she printed it out and gav
e it to the driver to sign.
“Well, this is as far as I go,” he said, scribbling. “Good luck.”
Maddy was uncomfortable with the idea of his just leaving her here. Accepting her files back, she asked, “Is someone supposed to meet me here or what?”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. A counselor or something. Dr. Stevens said I would be strictly supervised.”
“She meant electronically. Via your implant.”
“Oh yeah.” Stupid.
“What did you think the external modem was for?”
“Riiight. Robo-chaperone.”
“Exactly. That’s the whole point. Stay within a kilometer of this, and you got a high-speed wireless connection at all times. GPS, Bluetooth, you name it. It also acts as a wireless charger, converting radio frequencies to electricity, so you don’t have to worry about your batteries running low. Nothing can happen to you now without your doctors knowing about it, and we’re just up the hill.”
“I get it. Should have given me one of these before.”
“Well, the technology is so new, there are still major gray areas in terms of state and federal law. Off the reservation, Braintree simply doesn’t have as much authority to protect its proprietary technology in the event of loss or seizure. It’s an unacceptable risk. If anything goes wrong, the clinic needs to know that they’ll have first crack at their property. Not some clumsy first responder. Not some well-meaning doctor or hospital lawyer. Not some judge. You were too vulnerable to unwarranted intrusion before; here, we have reasonable confidence of primacy.”
Primacy. Property. Maddy didn’t like the sound of that. By first crack did he mean at the modem … or her skull?
“Well, that’s about it,” he said. “We all set?”
“Yeah … I think so.”
“You’re gonna be fine. Try to enjoy it, and remember that everything you need to know is right up here.” He tapped himself on the head.
“Okay.”
“You take it easy now.”
Mad Skills Page 11
