COSMOS magazine

Wednesday, June 25

Wayne guessed it was at least two days since he climbed down the manhole, but it could just as easily have been two hours. He had found himself in a tunnel barely high enough for him to stand up. One side was a walkway, the other was filled with pipes and electrical conduits. He had crawled along the walkway until he came to a point where the tunnel widened to form a small room containing a boiler that did not seem to be in use. He had hidden himself behind the boiler, curled into a foetal position, drifting in and out of consciousness. This place was his home now; the idea of leaving was terrifying. Gnawing hunger had given way to a sort of chronic numb emptiness. But he could no longer ignore the thirst and the need to pee.

He unfolded himself slowly and carefully, like working a rusty pair of pliers. He stood, leaned against the moisture beaded wall to keep from falling over. His hurt ankle had swollen but he could put a little weight on it now, which meant it was probably not broken. He had no plan, since he had no idea where he was. The cops had been yelling about closing off part of campus, so he could be at a school. He'd dreamed about a chemistry lab. Sometimes in the dreams he was a grown man, other times a little boy, screaming in protest as his father held him down so the doctor could give him a shot.

He walked very slowly, leaning against the wall, finally found a ladder. Not the same one he'd come down. This one was much shorter, and he was pretty sure he could climb it without falling. Maybe the cops had given up looking for him by now and he could melt away into the city. What he'd do then he had no idea.

At the top of the ladder was a wooden trap door rather than a manhole cover. He poked his head through the opening: he had come up into a long hallway with green walls and windows along one side. He pushed himself free and scanned his surroundings. It was dark outside, and he seemed to be the only person around. A clock on the wall read 3:10. Must be a.m.

Ignoring the pain from his ankle, Wayne shuffled down the empty hallway until he found a toilet. Farther along was a sign on the front of an unlocked door marked "Student Lounge'. Inside, he found a water fountain and more: a half eaten hamburger someone had left on one of the two Formica-topped tables. Rapturously, he took a very small bite to make the pleasure of eating last longer. He could remember no food that had ever brought him such tremendous pleasure.

Thursday, June 26

The Four Seasons Hotel was built just above Town Lake, with terraces overlooking the parklike riverbank. Although his auxosome-induced nausea and headache had passed, Paul still felt too weak to run, so had gone instead for a walk on the trail winding around the lake. He sat on the edge of the lower terrace, for the first time in his life totally captivated by a landscape.

A Rose of Sharon hedge was in bloom. The unusual reddish purple shade of the blossoms caught his eye. Bending to look more closely at one of the flowers, he was struck by the pleasing composition of grass, shrubs, trees, and stone work. Had he ever seen such depth of colour before, all the myriad shades of green, broken here and there by the contrasting reds and purples of flowers? Not since childhood, he realized. Not since wondrous, goggling infancy, besotted by the mystery and beauty of every patch of light, rich scent, sweet or sour taste on his hungry baby's tongue. Those forgotten baby memories burst up through him, nearly overwhelming. Looking down at the wall, built from local limestone, he noticed the fossilized remains of sea animals that had lived near this place millions of years ago; he found the juxtaposition of modern and ancient life forms powerfully moving.

A young woman jogged by, and Paul marvelled at the play of light through her hair and the movement of her muscles under sleek, tanned skin. A week ago, he realized, he'd have reacted with brief, routinely lustful appreciation but now, as he watched her pass by, he felt as well the thrill he experienced solving a particularly challenging theoretical problem or suddenly grasping new insights in the lab. With something close to awe he watched a drop of sweat on her face refract sunlight in a burst of rainbow colours.

Uh-oh, he thought then. The auxosomes in my brain tissues starting to kick in.

In his late teens he'd tried a hit or two of acid, had revelled in the sensory blitz, the roller coaster ride of weird perceptions, but this wasn't an acid trip. He was seeing the world whole, for a moment. He had anticipated that the neural enhancements might gradually improve his memory or help him reason more clearly, but he had not expected his perception of ordinary things to be intensified. Jill will love this, he thought, smiling. Alex too, although that lovable scamp probably lived in a world like this most of the time.

With a jolt, it occurred to him that Payback was probably going through the same thing. Despite the anger he felt at the man for violating their privacy, endangering their lives, Paul found himself wishing, improbably, that he and Payback could talk, compare notes on this remarkable change they were going through. I might get my chance to talk to Payback, he thought, if the bastard comes back looking for a second injection. But surely he won't come waltzing back into the lab.

Paul continued on his walk, and the fluid flow of his muscles delighted him. I wonder what he'll do. What would I do if I were in his place? He stopped, struck by a terrifying certainty: If I were in his place, I'd grab Alex. Oh God, I've got to warn Jill.

Thursday, June 26

"Alex and I are staying here at Paul's for a while," Jill said. "Hold on a moment, Carol." She put her phone down, juggled a box of files onto the table, retrieved the phone and kicked the door shut. "I feel reasonably safe here, the apartment's on the second floor." She gave her friend the address.

"But you're okay? There's nothing I can do?"

"We're fine, really."

"Let's be practical, Jill. I'm worried about you. Any prospect of another job?"

Jill shook her head in fond exasperation. What was this, "tough love'? Maybe so: Carol forcing her to confront the hard options.

"Not immediately."

Carol paused. That was unusual enough to alert Jill.

"You know, you could sell your house."

The suggestion floored her. Dryly, she said, "Rather a drastic solution."

"Sweetie, the guy tried to murder you and Alex."

"I know. Carol, I gotta go, so much stuff to be done before Paul gets back."

"Yeah. You be careful, girl. Okay? And give Alex my love."

"You bet."

 

Carol's suggestion seemed less preposterous by the time she stopped at the pharmacy to fill Alex's prescriptions. Someone had left a GreenSheet Weekly Advertiser on the counter next to the lip balm and breath freshener, and Jill leafed through it while she waited for her order to be filled. Surprising how much prices had boomed since she and Keith bought the house on Fruth seven years ago.

A plan was coming together by the time she got Alex settled into bed, where the doctor said he must spend most of his time for the next few days. From the Yellow Pages, Jill chose a realtor who claimed to specialize in selling residences in the Hyde Park area.

"A two-one on Fruth Street? I have a couple of free hours. I can come over and take a look at it now."

"I'm not actually at the house right now, and it would be hard for me to meet you over there. My little boy is sick, and I can't leave him alone. Could you drive by Fruth Street and look at the house, then meet me here at 2456 San Gabriel?"

 

Within the hour, Blanca Mendoza, licensed broker, was seated in the living room with Jill, pen poised over a Listing Agreement. "If you're looking for a quick sale, I'd say don't ask more than $315,000. Of course I'll have to do a full inspection, but the house looks in excellent condition and has curb appeal. A single bath is a drawback, and so is the lack of a garage. If you could live with that, I have a buyer I think might be interested."

Jill did a quick calculation. After she paid off the mortgage and the realtor's commission, that would net her around $69,000. Enough to live on for as long as...

"Shouldn't we ask for more than I actually expect to get?"

"Tell you what." Blanca smiled agreeably. "We'll list it at $325,000."

"Okay. Sounds good." Jill began studying the agreement.

"I'd like to take someone by this afternoon, if that would be all right with you. This is exactly the sort of home he's looking for."

Oh. Eager. Well, eager is good. "That would be fine." She handed over her spare house keys.

 

Jill squeezed oranges so Alex could drink fresh juice when he woke up, then realized she had nothing else to do. She started toward the refrigerator to engage in her usual default activity but realized she felt no desire to eat. Her gaze fell on the three cardboard boxes she had brought with her when she moved to Paul's. One of the clerks had brought them in as she was being escorted from Art Sutton's office. They contained the personal contents of her office; everything had been cleaned out. It was made icily clear that she would have no need, ever again, to return to the office that had been hers for the past eight years. If anything's missing, she thought, I'll give them hell about it.

The first two boxes held books and binders she'd collected from CLE seminars. In the third box was a collection of stuff from her desk: her calendar, a photo of Alex, a folder of notes for a paper she wanted to write for a legal journal. Several items, though, didn't look familiar. Curious, she pulled out a green file folder labelled "Violet Crown Estates: Plaintiff Interviews." That was a class action lawsuit Preston Bowie had asked her to work on. A land developer had decreased the value of neighbouring homes by badly polluting a creek. But she had never seen these files before. Damn, now she'd have to get them back; poor Clothile had probably searched every cubic inch of space in the building by now, looking for them. She pulled out two more files. Both Violet Crown Estates. The next file did not have a label. "Correspondence' was scribbled across the front in pencil. Preston Bowie's scrawl. Feeling guilty, Jill opened it.

The first sheet bore Blick Pharmaceuticals letterhead. At the top, boldly printed with a black marker:

Tom, I don't need to tell you what the introduction into the market of a superior SSRI antidepressant like Luminol would do to our bottom line. Take care of it. BB

She had seen that same handwriting, those same initials on Blick Pharmaceuticals memos about their pet Green foundation, Nature Forever. Nobody named Tom worked in her office. Underneath, written with a ball point in a different hand:

Preston, you need to get your people to work up a no holds barred campaign in support of H.R. 117. Bruce will make it well worthwhile. Tom

Jill frowned, puzzled. She was not naive. Money could buy political power, and often did—but surely Nature Forever stood for something different, something better than the usual sordid deals. I shouldn't be reading Preston's personal correspondence, shetold herself again, feeling cold. I should get this back to him immediately.

Despite herself, she reached for the next letter in the file. As she read it, her stomach tightened sickeningly. At the top of the dot matrix printout was the heading Green Guerrilla Message Board and several sentences, the last unfinished, from a Usenet posting:

MTJ, Inc is a hideous bleeding sore on the body of Gaia. This corporation would attempt to control the creation of life itself. This corporation and others like it were responsible for my wifes death. Tonight I did my sacred duty as one of Gaias soldiers against the cancer of Homo

Below was handwriting she recognized from the memo:

This is Rutherford's S 54B from the Ebuflex programming trials in the early 80's. Calls himself Earthsavior now.

That last note was not signed, but she recognized the handwriting as BB's. Bruce Blick. She was still sitting there, too stunned by what she had read to move, when Blanca Mendoza called with the good news.

"I've got a full-price offer for you on your house!"

As she hung up the phone, eyes filling with tears, Jill told herself: This is one of the defining moments in my life. Her job and house had both been a larger part of her self-image than she had realized. Now her house was gone, and the very integrity of the job that was no longer hers had been snatched away. It was as if she'd lost her footing and were falling helplessly out of her life and into someone else's.