Cog (2 page)

Interesting.

Perim bounced around on his own node, then the company’s, looking for its own anomalies. He tested the limits of his access—Startup folder, yes; Registry folder, no—which confirmed what he had expected. He pinched the skin behind his ears and squeezed out a BackdoorRTY.3 sepsis, then uploaded it to his node. He programmed it to remain in place for twenty-four hours, then transfer to the company node and conduct its own investigation.

His door chimed and Perim hurriedly closed down his node. It faded into the air before him. He tapped thumb and pinky once, and the magfield switched from dull grey to a school of freshwater fish.

Wills stepped through and Perim rose to meet him. Wills paused, eyeing Perim as if sizing him up for a suit fitting. The skin on Perim’s neck began to itch.

“I’ll need to map your brain for executive access to Cognition,” Wills said. He held up a small, black device. “Won’t take long.”

“Is this necessary?” Perim said.

The clown smile again. “Afraid so.”

“Very well.”

Perim allowed him to place the device on his forehead, which hummed softly, then pinged after about twenty seconds. Wills recovered the device, scanned the results, and nodded.

“Good scan. Ah, is eleven o’clock good for tomorrow?”

Perim nodded. “My schedule’s free, so far.”

“Great. See you then.”

At that, Wills turned and left.

b

Perim checked the time in his periphery—3:30. Tiredness stole over his body and mind from attending meetings, talking to employees, glad-handing fellow managers, and reading corporate documents. He edged back in his seat and activated the massage feature. Warmth suffused his neck and back as vibrating, kneading balls wended their way up and down his spine. Muscle tightness alerted them to a need, and they lingered in the middle of his back, where tension had knotted. He allowed himself to close his eyes, relax, and fall into the chair’s embrace.

“Emergency meeting called. Please attend. Room 718.”

Perim jerked upright. Jamie 3.5 stood before him with a newly acquired halo of orange that blinked staccato.

“What’s going on?” he said, hands gripping the arm rests.

She merely repeated the previous message. Perim groaned and turned off the massage.

“This had better be good.”

b

The conference room was filled with managers Perim had met earlier in the day, and one or two he hadn’t. The meeting was being led by Chris Kappert, head of IT. His face expressed pure shock. Some managers next to Perim were bandying about the words, ‘ambulance’ and ‘embezzle.’

The hell is going on?

Chris finally spoke, his voice cracked and emotion-laden.

“If I could have your attention, please.”

The room instantly fell quiet.

“I’m afraid I have some rather bad news. Geren Ryder has fallen ill and was taken by ambulance to Washington District Hospital. I will be going over there myself shortly to get more information. As of now, we don’t have any idea what is wrong, but rest assured that he is in capable hands.

“In another matter, which may be related, William Ryder is currently missing. He is not answering cogs and has not been seen in the building since 10:30 this morning. There is also…a substantial sum missing from the cash accounts.”

Murmurs rose until Chris put up a hand for quiet.

“There may be an explanation for all of this, but as of now, if you are contacted by William Ryder, please refer the call to HR. His node has been locked, and if he asks anyone for access to corporate documents, as I said, alert HR immediately. I’m afraid that’s all the news I have for now. I will keep you updated through the executive node as soon as I find out anything else.”

“Who’s going to run the company?”

The question came from a woman in the back. She had spiky red hair and a morgue-like pallor.

“As you know, we are family owned and managed, which makes Nicholle Ryder the present head of company.”

A small collection of groans rose up.

“I will approach her about taking the position, but if she refuses, then it would fall to the Board of Directors to appoint someone.”

Perim’s jaw tightened, but he kept his peace. He should be next in line, but he wasn’t on the list. Not yet. But with Geren and Wills out of the picture—an interesting turn of events—he made an urgent note to consult with an attorney.

Chapter 2

An orange sun hung low in the sky, beneath long bands of dark clouds, as if the sky were winking one last time before the sun sank beneath the undulating waters of the Anacostia River. Flecks of black dotted the scene—birds catching dinner by the dying light. Their cries were carried along the wind, then faded as the air currents shifted.
The light gleamed on the marble of the Prado’s Ionic columns that fronted long rows of paned windows. Statues ensconced in their rectangular recesses stood guard next to barred archways.

Nicholle Ryder stood out front, waving her hand as if creating the scene by magic.

“No, the columns by the front door are Doric, not Ionic. You’ll have to reprogram,” she said.

Haedn Gupta jabbed a finger in the air, keeping a list on his node.

When Nicholle’s father agreed to sponsor the Prado recreation, he lent her Haedn from American Hologram’s optics department, who at first denigrated the project every chance he got. After their display of a partial beta version at a kindergarten, however, he became an ardent supporter. The excited way the children reacted to works of art they normally would have shrugged at had drawn him in...had drawn them all in.

“We had to make some adjustments to account for a more narrow staging area, so just go through the museum and make a note of what needs changing and we’ll do everything at once,” he said. “And this time, you’re getting a cut-off date, Ms. Perfectionist.”

“So you say, Haedn, so you say. What about David?” Nicholle said as they strode through the front door. “Tell me his backside is as beautiful as the day it was sculpted.”

Haranguing the Gallery of the Accademia di Belle Arti had finally resulted in the holographic rights to the statue,
David—
a feat she wouldn’t let her boss forget. She had even beat out the Louvre.

“Take a look for yourself.” He gestured toward the towering statue to his right. “I put him just inside the front door, to keep anyone in line distracted,” Haedn said. “People are less prone to frustration if they’re not bored.”

Nicholle nodded approvingly as she traversed around the statue, admiring the finely sculpted figure. Hair curled about his face, brow folded in tense anticipation. She came to a halt halfway around.

“I always took you for an ass…woman.” Reya Connors, assistant extraordinaire,
came up beside Nicholle, punching the air with her finger. Blonde hair tied back with a scarf, 5’3” frame draped with a grey herringbone suit. Matching pumps. A model of efficiency.

“You’re as funny as a Blue Period work,” Nicholle said. She stood back to admire the view. “It looks so life-like,” Nicholle said.

“I don’t know. David’s not exactly well-endowed. Perhaps Michelangelo didn’t want to linger there too long.”

Talking to Reya was like talking to middle school boys. Eventually the conversation came around to sex or genitalia.

“Are you diagnosing Michelangelo with penis envy?”

“I’m just an executive assistant. What would I know?”

“We could make it bigger,” Nicholle said.

Reya chuckled. “Yeah. Wait—what? I was joking. The purists would have our heads on a pike. Not to mention the Gallery of the Accademia. The contract states—”

“Yes, yes, exact likeness and all that, but controversy means longer lines. And it’s not a violation if it’s a malfunction. Haedn! Add four inches to the front,” Nicholle said. She would deal with the fallout later.

“Hold on. Cog from Seppotia,” Reya said. She walked toward an alcove and spoke in low tones.

Haedn’s concentrated focus melted into a look of consternation. Then his face darkened to the color of an aged cabernet and he began to sputter and shake. “What? The statue of David is a masterpiece. No one—”

“We’ll get more publicity, which means longer lines. The longer the lines, the more money,” Nicholle said. “Which means a bonus for you.”

Haedn’s mouth hung open and his eyes rolled upward and froze in their orbit, like the top car on a Ferris wheel. Then he reanimated, looking around for anyone within earshot.

“For one day,” he said in a loud whisper. “That’s it!”

Nicholle gave him thumbs up. Haedn had a wife with expensive tastes and twins on the way. He had probably been up all night trying to figure out a way to afford Quattrocellini cribs and strollers.

Reya returned, hands on hips with a laser-beam gaze, which always meant bad news. Nicholle braced herself.

“Seppotia from the Guggenheim rejected our offer for the holographic rights to Kandinsky’s
Accompanied Contrast
. I told her she could lick my cat’s balls,” Reya said. Efficiency by Vassar, mouth by U.S. Navy.

Nicholle closed her eyes and rubbed flat the sudden grooves on her forehead. “Tell me you didn’t say that.”

“Well, not exactly. But I was in projection mode.”

That must have been an eyeful, Nicholle thought.
Nicholle
had had words with Seppotia before—civil, yet underscored with mutual hatred. The words, ‘
luddite
,’ and ‘artistic purity,’ were bandied between them.

“
Reya
, I know S
eppotia
can be difficult, but she’s leaving next month, and after she’s gone, we’re still going to have to deal with the Guggenheim. Try and be civil.”

Reya gave her a stony look but stayed silent.

“Come on. Let’s check out the Yebedor oils,” Nicholle said. She walked around to the statue’s front and collected a perturbed Haedn. They walked through the Renaissance, crossed the Enlightenment and Victorian Ages, and entered the Contemporary Age. Abstract oils, originally two-dimensional, hung suspended in air in distended form. Statues moved twenty degrees clockwise, then returned to their original pose. Museum workers moved in and out among the art, setting up ladders, installing diodes, calculating algorithms.

The oil paintings of Tre Yebedor occupied a room off of the Contemporary one, filled with blazing colors, hazy curves, and effervescent lines. The collection contained twenty oils.

“No, no. The arrangement is all wrong,” Nicholle said. “I want them in chronological order.” She pointed to the paintings in the order they should go. Reya punched and dragged the air, moving the oils into the specified order.

Chris Kappert
.
The name glowed orange in Nicholle’s periphery, signaling an incoming cog.

“Chris Kappert? I haven’t talked to him in a year. Hold on, Reya,” Nicholle said. She tapped her ring finger twice against her thumb, answering the cog. Chris’s transparent image hovered in front of her.

“Yes?” she said. He had changed his look. A year ago, he had dreadlocks and sported wrinkled shirts. Now he wore closely cropped dark hair and a navy suit. Green eyes ringed in hazel reflected a world-weariness that was not often seen in men his age.

“Hello, Nicholle. Nice to see you again. Unfortunately, I’m afraid I have bad news. Your father has fallen ill and has been taken to a hospital.”

Her arm froze in mid-sweep. Chris’s voice dissolved into a clanging dissonance in her mind, blending with the hammering of the museum workers. The oranges and blues of abstract art morphed into a blurred, whirling landscape where gravity did not fasten.

No, it can’t be.

“Wha—What...did you say?”

“Your father’s been taken to the hospital. He’s in Washington District hospital. I’m there now in the nanosurgery waiting area,” Chris said.

Only Nicholle heard him, but Reya rushed over and helped her onto a bench.

“Are you all right?” Reya said.

“He’s not dying, is he?”

“Who?” Reya said. Nicholle squeezed her arm to silence her.

“I don’t know yet. The doctor hasn’t come out to talk. And, we have issues to discuss. Try to get here as soon as you can,” Chris said.

“We don’t have a thing to discuss other than my father.” She tapped her ring finger twice against her thumb and Chris faded to black.

b

Nicholle skirted past an elderly couple and bounded up the green marble steps of Washington District hospital. She reached the top, ran through the magfield—emblazoned with the blue-and-yellow seal of the hospital—and butted her way past startled patients. She tapped open a directory, which unfolded before her in a holographic display of green and black. She sprinted toward the elevator.

“Nanosurgery, nano…third floor.” Nicholle repeated the finger taps and the directory faded. She slipped between the closing elevator doors and almost ran into a stout woman wearing a turban. The overhead speaker sounded, “Please step away from the doors.”

“Third floor,” she said. The 3 lit up in response. She stood just inside the door, tapping her foot.
C’mon, c’mon. I can’t believe they brought him to a public hospital.

Her attention was diverted by a holo-ad moving across the wall in front of her. Two pictures streamed by, side by side, one of a woman in a bed, tubes running from her arms and legs to bags of liquid hung on tall racks, the other of a woman walking down the street, smiling. Beneath the ad scrolled the words: From this…to this. Medinites®. Changing the Way You Heal.

Insipid elevator music played overhead, homogenized versions of last year’s songs, threatening to send her over the edge of impatience.

She rocketed out of the elevator when the doors opened and sped down the hall toward the surgery wing. A large, blonde woman sat behind a desk, greeting visitors, and looked up expectantly as Nicholle approached.

“Can I help you?” she said.

Nicholle ignored her and strode through the magfield, which was decorated with a waterfall scene, and into the waiting room.

Chris sat on a settee by a large window that faced the Ministry for Purlieu Security. The slowly shifting blues of the walls and the muted greens and beiges of the carpeting were designed to calm edgy relatives, but had no effect on her.

“Where is he? What happened?” Nicholle stopped in the middle of the waiting room floor, demanding answers.

Chris walked over to her. His grey eyes held a warmth that Nicholle had never witnessed, and his somber countenance reflected a concern she didn’t think he possessed.

“He’s still in surgery. As for what happened, he was walking down the hall when he suddenly collapsed. No warning sign of chest pain or headache. Nothing. He just collapsed,” Chris said.

“What did the doctors say?”

“They haven’t spoken to me yet. But the nurse said the surgeon should be out in a little while.”

“Where’s Wills?”

“Your brother…is on his way.”

“So what do we do? Just wait?”

“That’s all we can do. Have a seat.”

Nicholle threw her purse in a green chair by the window and sat down.

“How’s work?” Chris said.

“Fine.” She wished the waiting room had soundproof partitions. Worrying over her father was stressful enough without having to tolerate Chris, as well.

“Just fine? I heard you were working on a new exhibit. I know you love creating art displays.”

She made no reply, but Chris pressed on.

“In fact, I was thinking of coming down—”

“Can you quit with the small talk? I’m not in the mood.”

Chris shrugged. “Have it your way.”

Nicholle saw movement in her periphery. A woman’s head emerged from the magfield to surgery. The head remained suspended in a sea of white, soon joined by the rest of the body, adorned in a maroon anti-contaminant suit. Nicholle jumped from her chair and rushed toward the doctor, just stopping short of bowling her over. She fought the urge to take the doctor by the shoulders and shake the answers out.

“How is he?” Nicholle said.

The doctor drew up her thin lips until they practically disappeared.

A shot of pain burned in Nicholle’s chest. The background noise of the hospital faded to a distant droning and her mind clouded over.
It’s worse than I thought. God, don’t let him die, don’t let him die.

“I’m Doctor Lars, head of nanosurgery. Mr. Ryder is in a coma. We’ve administered fluids, vitamins, and pralaxinine, and programmed his medical nanites to stimulate the cerebrum, which rules consciousness. So far there’s been no reaction, but it may take some time. All we can do is wait for now and see what happens.”

“How long do we have to wait?” Nicholle said. “Can I see him?”

“I don’t know how long it will be before he regains consciousness. And, unfortunately, I’m afraid you cannot see him at the moment. Rest assured, we’re doing all we can.” She paused. “You are the next of kin?”

“Yes, I’m his daughter, Nicholle Ryder.”

“
I just want to inform you that your father has a living will that stipulates if he remains in a coma longer than five days, he is to undergo medinite-assisted euthanasia.”

“What? Are you insane? I’m not allowing that. I don’t care what the will says. Do you know who he is?”

“I’m well aware of his identity, Ms. Ryder, but that doesn’t change matters. Living wills have to be respected, whether they be of presidents of companies or janitors.” Dr. Lars adopted a smug look. “As I said, we’re doing all we can. I suggest you all go home and get some rest. We’ll call as soon as anything changes.” With that, Dr. Lars walked back through the magfield, disappearing into a sea of white.

Stunned. At both the doctor’s disrespect and the time limit. Five days. The euthanasists had gone too far. The laws they had pushed through Congress were supposed to be for those who couldn’t afford health care, to cut down on suffering. But they had gotten weak-willed officials to kowtow to their demands, and now they were all paying the price. “I don’t believe this. What the hell? Euthanasia? Did you know about this?” She leveled a gaze at Chris.

“Me? I knew nothing about your father’s will.”

“Oh, c’mon. You were up to your elbows in my father’s business. You knew everything he did, from what he had for lunch to what color tie he would wear the next day.”

“Jealous of that?”

Nicholle’s hand landed hard on Chris’s cheek. Heads jerked in their direction. Her hand smarted, but she refused to flinch. She’d wanted to do that for a long time. Chris kept his head to the side for a few seconds, then eased it back around. Nicholle turned away.

“Euthanasia.” Hot tears spilled down her cheeks and onto her sweater. The muted greens and beiges of the waiting room coalesced into a blur. A knot cinched her throat. Chris came over and took her by the shoulders as he led her to the settee.

Her tears dried, her medinites tending to her body’s crisis. A sense of calm enshrouded her and the fog began to lift from her thoughts. But she wanted to grieve.
Let the tears come
.

“Why isn’t Wills here yet?” Nicholle said. “He needs to be here.” Next to her father, Wills was the only person she had left in her immediate family. Their mother had been killed in a plane crash when she was two. After that, she had lived with the fear of losing her father, the reason Nicholle had tried to stay up late, waiting for him to come home from work when she was little. She’d always fallen asleep before he got home, though. Wills had always gone to bed on time, on the dot.

Chris sat next to Nicholle. He took her hand in his and spoke in a soft voice.