Wetware (14 page)

CHAPTER 8

March 26, 2029

THE MEETING was scheduled for the first thing in the morning, and by seven o’clock Briggs stood in front of the brick building. People were arriving at work, but none of them spoke to him or even nodded while he stood around outside. He had hoped that one or two might greet him or be friendly, but as he stood there he realized what he was really doing: making a guess, on the basis of atmosphere, as to where he stood.

A New Wave was beginning; it had been gathering momentum during the last month or so. The younger men were wearing white shirts with round collars, and a couple of them had on red shoes. They weren’t a bright red, but a cordovan. Liver-colored. Their pants were tight at the ankle, and baggy at the knee. Retro zoot-suit. Hair shaved in a strip from the collar up and allowed to grow a little so that it turned blue, like the color of Superman’s hair. The whispers would soon begin for those who weren’t dressed this way. The whisperers would say, “Look at his clothes. Old-hat, not hip, and just not into the way we do things now . . . ” The New Waves came in cycles: their arrival brought with it a whiff of hip condescension and a tyrannical sensibility.

Briggs saw a couple of young men wearing the new shirts and the red shoes. Not a lot. One or two. The clothes still looked striking and unusual, and they had that edgy style. Briggs was still wearing the casual gray shirt and pants from the last look, the baggy jacket. Sometimes a New Wave turned out to be nothing more than a false start, and there was an ominous, odd time when everyone tried to guess whether it was going to go or not. That’s what was happening now, although this New Wave looked more viable with each passing day.

A woman came up to the building and caught Briggs’s eye and almost smiled, but then hesitated. He tried to remember where she worked. In budgeting? They always had a hint about what was happening. He noticed that she was wearing a new pair of red shoes. The collar of a transparent blouse showed at her neck.

The door to the stairwell seemed heavier than usual, but he was glad when it swung shut with a pneumatic hush that assured his privacy. At least for a minute or two. He went around the stairwell, going deeper into the basement. The damp concrete smelled almost fresh and clean. Almost. He put his hand on the banister, the metal one, and then let go of it. Too cold.

The room where the growing platforms had been was empty. Not a thing was left. No tubes, wires, monitors, IV stands, platforms, gauges, cutters, or the small tools that were needed from time to time; no sheets, stainless-steel shelves. It was all gone. Not only that, but there were two men applying Insta-Wall, the stuff coming out of the containers through nozzles like a vacuum cleaner’s. Then the men put two electrodes into the muck and dialed for a finish, and the wall assumed the shape they had chosen: smooth, clean, new. Not a hint of what had been before. The room was ready for a new project without a sign of what had been here before—not a fleck of skin, not a piece of dandruff, not a fragment of bacteria or DNA. Nothing. It would be sprayed at the end, just to make sure, with Clorox. When they were done, it would have all the sterility of ground zero. Briggs stood there in the clean room, feeling his heart beat. Well, this was not what he had hoped for. Everything was disappearing, and where did that leave him? He thought of people going through his apartment, looking for mungo.

Upstairs, Briggs went into his office and sat there. He was early. He got up the manuals for the project, the rules and regulations, the specifications. Maybe he could come up with some technicality that would throw them off the chase. He scrolled through the pages. As he worked, he heard some New Wave music, something called Stomper Rock, although he wasn’t sure whether it was coming through the floor or from down the hall. The city seemed to exist as an extension of the sound, which had its roots in retro-techno. The lyrics of a new hit were “Whatcha got goin’, Whatcha got goin’, Whatcha got goin’ . . .?”

He read through the small type of the appendices, where the real dirt usually was, but still he came up with nothing, and then he realized that it wasn’t something in the manuals that was missing, but in himself: his sense of the future was gone.

“Find anything?” said a man who stood at the door of Briggs’s office.

Briggs wiped his hands on his pants. The man at the door was wearing musk: you could smell the New Wave, which was like the ocean at low tide. He wore red shoes and a new shirt. They were beginning to wear thin ties, too. Briggs wondered what they were thinking, in terms of new changes, and how things could be organized. Who was expendable, who was old-hat, who was using slang and phrases that weren’t right up to the moment? The language you spoke had a nasty way of identifying you with some old style if you weren’t careful about it. If your slang was out-of-date, you were caught speaking the Language of the Dead.

“No,” said Briggs.

“Uh-huh,” said the man.

“I’m just looking over an old project,” said Briggs.

“What’s the use of that?” said the man.

Briggs nodded. The man used peppermint candies, small red ones that came out of a dispenser, and now he used the dispenser to extrude one of them into his hand. He put it in his mouth. His words came out in puffs of mint, like sweet centers in a cloud of musk.

“Say,” said the man. “What unit are you in now? Is it the gaming stuff or wetware?”

“Wetware,” said Briggs.

“Uh-huh,” said the man. “That’s good. We’re interested in wetware. A lot of places it could go.”

“Yeah,” said Briggs.

“Who do you report to?” said the man. “Mashita?”

“Yeah,” said Briggs.

Briggs looked around, through the glass walls.

“What’s he like to work for?” said the man.

“It’s okay,” said Briggs.

“Hmpf,” said the man. “Maybe we should talk it over sometime.”

“Sure,” said Briggs.

“Maybe he’s made some mistakes. Or he has shown obvious errors of judgment. A project that wasn’t working out right. Budget deficits. Wasted money. That kind of thing,” said the man.

“Well, I don’t know much about that,” said Briggs.

The man waited there, sucking the mint. Finally, as though producing a confidence, or making an overture of friendship, he said, “Well, if anything comes to mind, call me. My name is Phillips. Here.”

He held out his card.

“You might think of something,” said Phillips.

Briggs looked at the card, but he didn’t take it.

“I hear you’re going to be transferred,” said Phillips.

“Is that right?” said Briggs.

“Yeah,” said Phillips. “Do you want this, or not?”

Briggs took it.

“Thanks,” he said, feeling the word in his mouth like something stale.

The inquiry was in a room that had a view of the city. A large table stood in the middle of the room, with three padded chairs around it. The window showed the river and some new buildings that stuck up out of the sprawl. Mashita was wearing dark clothes, a pair of baggy pants, and an off-color, gray and crimson tie. It reminded Briggs of what organs looked like as they were forming in the growing medium. In fact, as Briggs stood there, he guessed that one of the reasons Mashita had this job was that if things got bad enough, he would probably commit suicide. Was this one of them?

Krupp sat in the room with his usual two-day growth of beard. Same close-cropped hair, although it looked a little steel-colored now. Same dark clothing too, and small glasses. Every now and then, as always, he reached up and squeezed the sides of his nose.

“Ah, Briggs,” said Mashita. “Glad you could come. You’ve met Krupp, haven’t you?”

Before Briggs could answer, Krupp looked away, out the window. So, thought Briggs, he’s going to pretend he doesn’t know me.

“So, shall we get started?” said Mashita.

Krupp squeezed the sides of his nose again.

“It won’t take long,” said Mashita. “Sit down.”

Mashita moved with ceremonial delicacy.

“You remember, Briggs, how we used to talk?” said Mashita. “How we used to argue whether fate had a sense of irony?”

“I remember,” said Briggs.

“I was just thinking about that this morning,” said Mashita. “Tragedy is a terrible vision of life, but sometimes fate leaves a man looking as if he’s sat on a wedding cake.”

“I don’t think this is funny,” said Briggs. “Do you?”

“No,” said Mashita. “The consolations of philosophy aren’t that good in the heat of things. Not when you get right down to it.”

“Come to the point,” said Krupp.

“We’re going to transfer you,” said Mashita to Briggs. “That’s final. There is no discussion about that.”

“What am I going to be doing?” he said.

“Something a little more commercial,” said Mashita.

“All right,” said Briggs. “What about the last project?”

“Oh, that,” said Mashita. He turned to Krupp. “What do you have to say about that?”

“Nothing,” said Krupp. “It’s history. As far as I’m concerned, it never existed. If there is no evidence of its existence and we forget about it, who is to say it ever happened at all? Is that understood?”

The sensation of being nauseated was a little stronger than before, and as he looked out the window, Briggs wondered just what he was being told, anyway.

“I’d like to ask a question,” said Briggs.

“A what?” said Krupp.

“A question. I wonder about . . . ” said Briggs, but then he stopped. He coughed. Then he looked out the window, where the river showed in a long, lead-colored S. Even from here, he could see the bright scales on it made by the wind.

“What about Kay and Jack?” he said.

Mashita shrugged.

“They took off without the medical check,” said Mashita.

“I thought that was done right along,” said Briggs. “You know, I had written procedures for that. Right along, the technicians were supposed to be checking.”

“No,” said Mashita. “We thought we could do it later, all at once. It’s cheaper and better. No duplication. So they took off without it.”

“Oh,” said Briggs. “I thought it was the other way.”

“What’s the big deal?” said Krupp.

Briggs turned to the river again, the languid shape of it in the sunlight suggesting a different scale of time, more geological and infinitely slow.

“I didn’t think it was going to be that way,” said Briggs.

“Well, it’s too late now. Tuberculosis, meningitis,” said Mashita. “Encephalitis? Maybe they’ll spend a little time in an airport. Do you know how easy it is to get a sore throat in an airport?”

He didn’t look unhappy about this.

“So, if they are going to die anyway, what we have to do is to sit tight. That’s the long and the short of it, isn’t it?” said Krupp.

“I’m not so sure about that,” said Briggs. “It’s hard to say.”

“What’s hard to say?” said Mashita. “You know, Briggs, I’m asking you to be precise. So don’t give me a hard time. Just tell me what you mean.”

“One of the things we do, when we do the medical check right along, is to make sure they aren’t producing something new. A new disease altogether. But I guess that wasn’t done.”

“I didn’t think they were going to get away,” said Mashita. “I thought we could do it all at once. You act as though we were planning to let these two go. We weren’t. They were for demonstration purposes only. Why should we have spent the money on early medical checks if they were only for demonstration?”

Mashita and Briggs looked at one another.

“What’s the big deal?” said Krupp. “Jesus, will someone around here just answer a fucking question?”

“They could be carrying something new. A new disease,” said Briggs. “They wouldn’t get it, but we might. I mean ordinary people.”

“How are we going to know if that’s happening?” said Krupp.

“I don’t know,” said Briggs. “How can you look for something you’ve never seen before?”

“You’re not looking at this clearly. There are new diseases around all the time. You know what goes on in the alleys downtown? Jesus, don’t tell me about new diseases. And as far as Jack and Kay are concerned, if they don’t get sick, there are a lot of surprises out there. Believe me. So, if one thing doesn’t get them, another will. We’ve just got to sit tight. That’s my take,” said Krupp. He shrugged. “If there’s a problem here, it’s self-liquidating.”

Mashita said to Briggs, “Do you understand?”

“I guess,” said Briggs.

“Briggs,” said Mashita, “there isn’t any room for guessing here. What we need to know from you is whether or not you understand.”

Krupp looked up. No squeezing of his nose. He looked tired but alert.

“Yes,” said Briggs.

“Yes, what?” said Mashita.

“Yes, I understand that it never happened and if anyone asks me about it I will deny it. There is no evidence aside from our memories.”

“
Our
memories?” said Krupp. “I never saw a thing. Did you?” He turned to Mashita.

“No,” said Mashita.

“See?” said Krupp. “We don’t know anything. Right from the get-go. You have to look out for what you remember. You’re on your own.”

“What about the technicians?” said Briggs.

Mashita showed a little irritation; it was the only moment when he lost his grip.

“They’ve been transferred,” he said.

Briggs wondered if the mungo men were already at work in the technicians’ apartments.

“All right,” Briggs said. “Is there anything else?”

“No,” said Mashita. “That about sums it up.”

“Well, then,” said Briggs. “I guess I’ll go down the hall and clean out my desk. When will I get my new assignment?”

“This week,” said Mashita.

Briggs nodded. Then he turned and went to the door, but when he got there, Mashita said, “Briggs. For God’s sake, be careful. I’m concerned about you.”

“God knows why,” said Krupp. “Jesus, where do you get these guys?”

“This one comes from Yale,” said Mashita.

“What’s the world coming to?” said Krupp.

Mashita turned back to Briggs.

“Some people here are wondering about how they knew to get away,” said Mashita. “Now, I’m not saying anything about that. Not now. We’re working on a need-to-know basis. Okay?”