The Egg Code (34 page)

X No, I’ll smother it. I’ll bury the book. I can’t let this happen to the children. A good typographer, yes, a good one, but no, I don’t know what a good typographer does.

Y Julian Mason stands on the roof of his house in Big Dipper Township, his arms raised over his head, and he watches as the winter storm rolls in from the city, a northbound sway of illuminated cotton balls. He can smell the electricity in the air, and it makes the tiny hairs on the back of his neck bristle and twitch. High above the tower, Candace Mason swirls in a column of blue light. A kind of warm radiance emanates from her body. Closing his eyes, Julian smiles and laughs and pumps his fists, for at last he knows what it means to be a good son.

Z Yes, but can you withstand the diabolical forces of the mighty zee, heh?
This
, I ask you!

XX

It Can’t Happen Here

0001011101001101000110

The house. Several apartments with high pointy rooftops. The spaces between the rooftops look like inverted rooftops. Matching rows of teeth. A cold breeze, a forceful push. The air is filled with dirt and snapped twigs.

—Rub eye? Don’t rub eye?

—Rub eye.

The wind blows into Olden’s mouth. His ears are rough and red and cold. His nose is wet with snot. A strand of snot flies in the wind; it flaps and flutters, clinging to his cheek.

—Wipe away strand? Don’t wipe away strand?

—Don’t wipe away strand.

Two surveillance men are approaching the building. Olden has been spying on them for the past fifteen minutes. Crouched in a thicket of trees, he saw the whole thing—the two cars edging up to the curb, waiting for Derek Skye to come out of his apartment. Derek looked anxious as he crossed the lawn and hurried into town. He was carrying something, Olden noticed, a stack of papers. Maybe that’s what the men were looking for; the idea of a former insider writing a book certainly wouldn’t appeal to the Gloria Corporation, even though Derek has written many books in his life, most of them harmless enough.

The surveillance men have now reached the front steps. They both walk with a stoop, as if expecting bullets to start flying over their heads at any moment. They knock on the door and begin to pick the lock with a specially designed, lock-picking kind of gizmo/doodad. The door swings open and one of them proceeds inside. Moments later, the venetian blinds on the second floor go from being skinny to being fat.

—Feel sorry for Derek Skye? Don’t feel sorry for Derek Skye?

—Feel sorry for Derek Skye.

—Because he is an admirable man? Because you respect the work he is doing?

—See other.

—Because his predicament reminds you of your own? Because Scarlet Blessing would be unhappy?

—Because his predicament reminds me of my own, and see other.

—Because this invasion of privacy represents even greater constitutional violations that the federal government commits every day? Because, in searching the apartment, the surveillance men may inflict irreparable damage to the property, resulting in a decreased value for the landowner?

—Because this invasion of privacy represents even greater constitutional violations that the federal government commits every day, and see other.

—End of list.

The man outside walks down the front lawn and looks up the street, toward town. He then turns around and looks in the other direction, away from town. He then looks across the street and stares directly at his vehicle. His expression is stony.

—Slink back into the woods? Don’t slink back into the woods?

—Slink back into the woods.

Olden hunkers down behind the stand of trees and wipes the sweat from his forehead with the palm of his left hand.

—Wipe sweat: onto pant leg? onto ground? onto other hand? onto side of face? back onto forehead? onto trunk of tree? onto invisible creature of the woodlands? onto front of shirt? onto seat of pants? onto neck? onto hair? onto imagined likeness of Chester Alan Arthur? onto shoe? onto medallion?

—Wipe sweat onto side of face.

Looking down at the frozen ground, Olden closes his eyes as a blustery wind sifts through the trees. Pine needles fall from the branches and filter down the neck of his shirt.

—Entertain half-baked notions of guilt and complicity? Don’t entertain half-baked notions of guilt and complicity?

—Entertain half-baked notions of guilt and complicity.

—Because by utilizing the current multi-communications network to satisfy your own thirst for destruction, you have taken advantage of the trust of the world community? Because by infecting the Information Superhighway with products of misinformation, you have created a greater harm than you ever first imagined, even in your most sordid, delusion-wracked fantasies?

—Because by infecting the Information Superhighway with products of misinformation, I have created a greater harm than I ever first imagined, even in my most sordid, delusion-wracked fantasies, and see other.

—Because by taking this action, you may have subtly altered the fabric of reality, thereby making the world a less secure place to live? Because you still harbor feelings of resentment and inadequacy stemming from your childhood as the son of two brilliant yet rather unapproachable mega-geniuses, parents whose love and attention you crave to such an unhealthy extent that you have resorted to this desperate gesture, a global version of look-ma-I-broke-my-new-toy-truck?

—Because I still harbor feelings of resentment and inadequacy stemming from my childhood as the son of two brilliant yet rather unapproachable mega-geniuses, parents whose love and attention I crave to such an unhealthy extent that I have resorted to this desperate gesture, a global version of look-ma-I-broke-my-new-toy-truck, and see other.

—End of list.

The surveillance man sneaks alongside the complex and disappears into the woods.

—Follow the surveillance man? Don’t follow the surveillance man?

—Follow the surveillance man.

Olden tiptoes across the street and follows the man into the woods. The ground is covered with roots. He walks with his head down, breathing on his shirt; this makes his face feel warm. Icicles cover the bare tree branches, which crinkle and crack in the distance. He reaches a frozen stream bed; giant icicles pierce it in spots like vaccination needles. The stream bed sags and folds like wet cardboard when he walks across it.

—Look back at footprints? Don’t look back at footprints?

—Look back at footprints.

Olden looks back at his own footprints. They are a single shade darker than the surrounding frost. He suddenly feels disoriented. He stops walking and cups his hands around his ears: seashells. The air is very cold. The tiny hairs inside his nostrils are frozen stiff. The other man is gone.

—Curse? Don’t curse?

—Curse.

—Fuck? Cunt? Shit? Damn? Bitch? Hell? Damnit to hell? Goddamn fucking shit? Motherfucking goddamn bullshit fucking damn goddamn motherfucker? Goddamn sonuvabitch fucking goddamn shit? Goddamnit? Fucking goddamn bullshit? Goddamn fucking damn shit? Fuck it, fuck it straight to hell?

—Fuck it, fuck it straight to hell.

Olden stands still, considering where he is in relation to the road, the lake, other key landmarks. All around, the same tree repeats itself, like a text file copied a thousand times.

—Concoct imaginary woodland sounds to avoid confronting the hopelessness of the situation? Don’t concoct imaginary woodland sounds to avoid confronting the hopelessness of the situation?

—Concoct imaginary woodland sounds to avoid confronting the hopelessness of the situation.

—Creaking branches? Chittering squirrels? Ice breaking? Cocktail making? Birds squawking? Children talking? Rodents spitting? Bamboo splitting?

—Creaking branches. Chittering squirrels. Ice breaking. Birds squawking.

Something flashes just to the left of his head. Through the trees, he can see his little one-room shack. The tower looms above the forest, its windward side covered with snow. The lake is frozen, of course; he could walk to the center from here. Coming closer, he notices two additional surveillance men, Mr. Tall and Mr. Short, poking around the house. No vehicle present. They must have come on foot.

—Consider other alternatives? Don’t consider other alternatives?

—Consider other alternatives.

—Bicycle? Go-cart? Solar-powered terra-glider?

—See other.

—Dromedary? Vintage car? Helicopter? Hand-driven rail cart?

—See other.

—Stallion? A fantastic bird of some sort? The hand of Zeus? A supernatural carpet? A pogo stick? A beverage tray?

—They must have come on foot.

Olden runs toward his house, but the men grab him by the shoulders to prevent him from going inside. They say things like “Hey, man” and “Whoa there” and “Not this time.” Both of them wear nice watches, loops of stretchy steel. The design in the center of the timepiece is something familiar to Olden. The tree with four trunks.

Backing away, he peers into the shack. The room is dark except for the blue glow of the monitor. The two men—tall and short—ask a few barking questions about the Egg Code.
Yeah, officers, I’m clean. Talk to
my loi-yer.
Olden realizes he can’t be too cavalier. Just another concerned citizen.
We all want to get to the bottom of this.
He tries to look sheepish. It’s hard to do. The sheepish look. If you don’t really mean it.

—Select another facial expression? Don’t select another facial expression?

—Select another facial expression.

—Proud? Irate? Indignant? Indifferent?

—See other.

—Mercurial? Outlandish? Duplicitous? Doubtful?

—Stick with sheepish.

Mr. Tall reasserts himself, hefting his belt. When we say Mr. Tall and Mr. Short, we’re exaggerating a little. Mr. Tall looks about six-two, six-three. Mr. Short, five-ten, five-eleven. These men have real names, real lives, real families. Olden envisions Mr. Short relaxing on the weekends. Walking the dog. He’s got a golden retriever, they’re running down the beach. Hair all over the place. Hip shades, the kind JFK used to wear. The golden retriever is gazing up at Mr. Short in adoration, tongue lolling. It’s thinking, When is he going to throw the Frisbee?

—Imagine real names for Mr. Tall and Mr. Short? Don’t imagine real names for Mr. Tall and Mr. Short?

—Imagine real names for Mr. Tall and Mr. Short.

—Buck Wilde? Dan Daniels? Ricki Fontaine? Rex Rock? Ford Brik? Billy Cougar? Dent Savage? Leif Hitler? John Boy? Clint Foxtrot? Dirk Miller? Jack Diamond? Luke Shoetree? Tarzan Laine? Zak Deal? Ted Gripp? Smash Dagger? Ben Clapp? Rob Glass? Lance Dance? Harvey Bugle? Alvin Meen? Dave Plant? Octavio—

—Cancel.

Mr. Short tells his partner to go back inside. Alone now, he warns Olden not to hinder their investigation. Ever since the Living Arrangements debacle first went public, Olden’s “Egg Code” Web site has cost online retailers untold thousands of dollars. No one seems to trust the Internet anymore. The Gloria Corporation, he says, has a right to protect its own property. Hearing this, Olden tries not to smile:
Real property,
he wonders,
or cyber property?
When he asks this question, Mr. Short moves in closer and puts his hand on his shoulder. The grandfather thing. The wise old man.
Look, son. Now you’re making me do something I don’t
want to do . . .

—Recollect the dead face of one James Field (1910–1978)?

Don’t recollect the dead face of one James Field (1910–1978)?

—Recollect the dead face of one James Field (1910–1978).

—How he looked weird without his glasses.

—The little groove running across the bridge of his nose.

—The slack jowls. The thick makeup. Trying to make him look natural.

—What if he sits up? What if he sits up right now?

—Aaahh! His head comes off. Pigeons fly out.

—People screaming. The race to the parking lot.

—His eyes are red. He vomits flames.

—You’re the one he wants.

Olden twists away from Mr. Short’s hand. The two men are roughly the same age. Olden could have had his job, easy. He could’ve worked for the Gloria Corporation. The possibilities present themselves, and he imagines another world, the comfortable life he might’ve led had things worked out differently. In this other place, he envisions a woman—Scarlet, perhaps—coming into the living room, carrying a tray of freshly baked cookies. The phone rings; Olden is taking a shower. The world outside is no different.

Mr. Tall emerges from the shack, clutching a fistful of evidence. A toothpick juts out between his lips. The toothpick matters; it reveals something about his personality, how he points with it as the two men stride across the driveway and slip back into the forest.
Strange
, Olden thinks,
there’s nothing
in
those woods.
Puzzled, he turns and goes inside. He has a lot to worry about.

Dizzy and distracted, he feels his way across the dark room. Dust clings to the computer screen, wispy motes of something. He can’t believe he’s been breathing this stuff for years. In one corner of the room, he can see his windsurfer propped against the wall, the sail unraveled and spread across the floor. What a dump. He needs to move back to the city. Get a normal job. Never mind these intellectual pursuits. It would be nice to have some real friends for a change. Guys named Phil. Beers after work.
Yeah, I’ll have the nachos and . . . you got Milluh Lite?
Ice hockey on the large-screen TV. Working gals and their turquoise margaritas. Men waving across the bar.
Hi, ladies!
The one on the left’s nice, but lose the tie.
Phil, I think she digs you.
What do you do?
I’m in management . . .

Too late for that. The feds are on his trail. In their eyes, he’s already guilty of something. Leaning over the keyboard, he jettisons the Windows interface and the screen goes dark. Suddenly the monitor flashes; bright numbers flock in streams of zeros and ones. He prunes the data, then reboots and logs on to the Egg Code. Closing his eyes, he listens for the characteristic chatter of the CPU negotiating with its host—the handshake, the exchange of packets, the confirmation, the efficient farewell. TCP/IP in action.

—Recollect a vision of Martin Field working on the TCP/IP protocol in the late 1970s? Don’t recollect a vision of Martin Field working on the TCP/IP protocol in the late 1970s?

—Recollect a vision of Martin Field working on the TCP/IP protocol in the late 1970s.

—The dining-room table covered with graph paper.

—Dad on the phone. Everyone else is eating breakfast. The smell of burnt Pop-Tarts.

—Mom lacing up her construction boots. Well, I’m off.

—Moses waiting outside, his hockey stick raised like a staff. Blade up. Wants to play.

—Where’s the dog? There he is.

—Stretches its paws. Yawns. Yeeooowwwl.

Olden forces himself to look at the screen. An unfamiliar pattern grows toward the center; blue lines meet and then cross. Expecting the Egg Code, he discovers a jumble of images in its place, his original Web page scrambled beyond recognition. He rechecks the address. Nothing wrong with the URL. Words assemble, building from the top down. Blocks connect—now letters. He reads the message three times, then covers the screen with his hand.