“So you wanted to make a good impression.” Jeraldo says. “Prove you’re a team player.” The statement is one of commiseration, sympathy for the position Rigo was in. He’s been there himself, knows what it’s like to jump through hoops.
Rigo nods. “Sure. That was the whole point. To get to know some of the people I’d be working with, and vice versa.”
“Who did you talk to at the party?” Liz says.
“A bunch of people. Most of it was stuff like, ‘Wow, these bean cakes are really good,’ and ‘Have you considered the teleological ramifications of quantum flipping?’ ”
“Did you talk to Dorit?”
“Yeah. She was super lonely. Needed someone to talk to. Someone who would kick back and listen.”
Liz purses her lips, two gilded lilies shriveling together. “What precisely did you talk about, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“The past, mostly.”
“The past?”
“Yeah. What things were like before the ecocaust. Her reason for wanting to go to Tiresias. The things she would miss. The things she wouldn’t. The kind of nostalgic stuff people always wallow in when their life is about to take a major turn, and there’s no going back.”
“That’s all?” Liz sounds skeptical and disappointed in him at the same time. Yet another black mark on the mental checklist she’s keeping.
“That’s all I can remember,” Rigo says. “The wine hit me kind of hard. It was an evening of regrets.”
“During the reclade in Costa Rica,” Jeraldo says, “an unregistered pherion turned up in your base profile. How do you explain that?”
Rigo shrugs, as if the answer is obvious. “Whipplebaum. Ten to one, it’s the slave pherion he dosed the warm-blooded plants with.”
“What do you know about Ibrahim Darji?” Liz says.
Rigo massages his face with his hands, struggling to make the connection between the tear in his biosuit, Dorit, and Ibrahim. “Not much. Only what Anthea told me.” He assumes they know all about Anthea. “That he’s a street kid . . . a runaway she’s trying to help. Why?”
“He was picked up at your mother’s aplex, the morning you left for Tiresias,” Liz says, a triumphant gleam on her face.
“What does that have to do with me?” Rigo’s not sure what to think . . . where the dynamic duo is headed.
“There are terrorist orgs that would like to see the Tiresias project and the people working on it destroyed,” Jeraldo says. “We have reason to believe Ibrahim was doped with a deadly pherion before Global Upreach picked him up.”
Rigo bites back on a laugh, almost chokes on the absurdity of who they’re trying to blame for the disaster. “You can’t really believe Dorit is a member of a terrorist org. That she doped him so that she could destroy the ecotecture she was intending to live in?”
“It’s possible,” Jeraldo says. “If so, she needed to be certain you were exposed to the pherion before you left for Tiresias.”
“You mean through Anthea?” Rigo says.
Jeraldo nods soberly. “That’s the most likely scenario. She was in direct contact with Ibrahim for a couple of days. She could very easily have been exposed and passed the pherion on to you.”
Rigo doesn’t believe it. Even if they’re telling the truth about Dorit—which is doubtful—there’s no way she could be sure that Anthea would get Ibrahim’s case, let alone bring him to his mother’s place. It’s a reach. So it stands to reason that they’re feeding him a load of bullshit. “Are we talking about the same unregistered pherion that turned up in my base profile?”
“What do you think?” Liz says.
Rigo ignores the rhetorical sarcasm. “Do you have any evidence that Ibrahim is carrying a deadly terrorist pherion?”
“He’s dying, isn’t he?” Jeraldo says.
“What about Anthea?” Rigo asks. “And me? We were in close contact with him. Are we dying?”
The tag team trades a quick glance, as if this part of the presentation hasn’t been fully rehearsed.
“There may be a time-delay component,” Liz says. “Or a missing component. A catalyst to activate it.”
“So I’ve been quarantined.” Rigo stands, paces the length of the bed. “For how long? How long before I can go back to work?”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Liz says.
“Why not?”
She moistens her lips with a snakelike flick of her tongue. “The decision has been made to terminate your relationship with Noogenics.”
Rigo just stares at her, sick to his stomach as the world falls away, drops out from under him.
“Try to put yourself in our position,” Jeraldo says, playing the diplomat. “Spec it from the corp’s point of view.”
It takes a moment for Rigo to find his feet. “I am,” he says. “I work hard. I care about my job. I’m good at what I do.”
“Not anymore,” Liz says. “After the disaster on Tiresias, you’re a liability. High risk. We can’t take any chances. Especially since your brother’s in jail.”
“Beto was arrested?”
“He was rustling for a black-market pharm. Has been for some time, according to politicorp security.”
“So that makes me guilty by association?”
“Let’s just say it clouds the issue.”
Rigo looks at Jeraldo. His supposed advocate shrugs. “Sorry, bro, it’s out of my hands. The decision’s already been made.”
“Don’t call me bro.”
Jeraldo spreads his hands. “Look, bro. I know you’re upset—”
“Fuck you,” Rigo says. “You’re an asshole
bro
, you know that? A motherfucking
pendejo
.” He’s breathing heavily. He might as well be shouting into the wind for all the good it’s going to do. A waste of breath.
“Calm down.” Jeraldo stands, defensive. “Don’t take it so personally.” He’s in a fighter’s easy posture. He’s not just here as window dressing.
Rigo laughs, tension pressure release.
“You lost six people up there,” Liz snaps. “What the hell are we supposed to do? Give you a raise?”
“Fuck you.” Cold invades him, brittle as the frozen breath of Antoine and Luis. “Those people were my friends. I did everything I could to save them, bring them back. I risked my neck. If I hadn’t, they’d still be up there.”
“That’s the reason RiboGen and Noogenics aren’t pressing charges,” Liz says in tight voice.
Rigo sniffs. “Bad PR, huh?”
“You’ll get a nice severance package,” Liz says. “Two week’s pay, vacation, and sick time.”
“Just get out,” Rigo says. He turns to the window and stares out at the city until he hears them get up and shuffle out, the hermetic thump of the door closing, air hissing out around the edges like it’s the end of the world.
TWENTY
Anthea spends the afternoon at the clinic with Rigo’s mother. Helps her get settled into her room. Waits with her while she’s getting examined. Eats an early dinner at her bedside, tandoori chicken from the cafeteria. Watches a netzine on the wallscreen at the end of the bed. During the past couple of days something’s happened to Tiresias while the comet was changing orbit. Details are sketchy, but it looks serious.
“It’s late,
mija
,” the old woman says when they’re done. “You must be tired after today.”
“I’m okay, Mama. I’m just worried about Rigo.”
“I’m sure he’s fine.”
“He’ll want to know what happened to you,” Anthea says, going along with the pretense. “That you’re resting comfortably.”
The old woman points her chin at the wallscreen. “I’m sure he has his hands full without me.”
“No wonder he hasn’t called,” Anthea says, gaze fixed on the screen. She hasn’t heard from him in two days, not since the morning he left. Usually, he calls twice a day, regular as clockwork. She never has to check a clock to know what time it is. She twists her hands in her lap. Pinches the crepe of her yellow sprayon skirt, leaving a sharp crease.
“Get some rest,” Rigo’s mother tells her. “Try not to worry. Especially about me. I’ll be okay.”
“I’ll do my best.” Anthea stands. “I’ll see you first thing in the morning, Mama. Pleasant dreams.”
Anthea closes the door, then moves down the hall to an empty waiting room and has Doug call Rigo.
“His address is unavailable at this time,” the IA tells her.
So there’s no way to get in touch with him. She paces. Runs her hands through her hair. Takes a deep breath. “All right. Contact BEAN.” Maybe she can find out what happened to Ibrahim. If nothing else, it will give her something different to worry about.
“ ‘Tis time to fear when tyrants seem to kiss,’ ” the IA quotes. “ ‘The devil hath power / To assume a pleasing shape.’ ‘. . . Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud: / Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun, / And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.’ ”
Anthea squints out one of the cellulose windows at the street below. “Just make the call. Please?” She isn’t in the mood. Hopes the IA loses its interest in theater soon and moves on to some other fixation.
She slips on her eyescreens. Her flitcam detaches from the ring on her right index finger and hovers in front of her with a barely audible whine.
Instead of the yellow or green agents, she gets a colorless bureaucrat seated at a liaison desk.
“Bureau of Ecotectural Assimilation and Naturalization,” the man says. “Can I be of assistance?”
“I’m trying to contact these two agents.” Doug relays the personal info from the earlier conversation she had with them.
The bureaucrat frowns, taps a keypad on the desk with caliper-precise fingertips. She’s pretty sure the man is an IA and that she’s looking at an avatar. “I’m sorry. I’m unable to connect you.”
“Why not?”
“The personal information you supplied is not registered with the agency at this time.”
“What do you mean, it’s not registered?”
“The names you provided are currently not in my database. I suggest you verify the contact information and resubmit your request.”
“How could the profiles be wrong?” Anthea says. “It’s the personal information
they
sent when they contacted me.”
“I just checked with the subnet agent manager. Neither name is a valid listing in BEAN address space. I don’t know what else to tell you.”
“Okay,” Anthea says. “Thanks for your help.”
“I’m glad I could be of assistance,” the bureaucrat pipes, cheerfully oblivious to her sarcasm.
“Is there any way to trace the address information they used?” she asks Doug as soon as the bureaucrat drops offline. It’s possible BEAN is covering for the two agents—or that the agents aren’t from BEAN at all.
“No. You have a call.”
“Who is it?”
“Your supervisor.”
Tissa appears on Anthea’s eyescreens, her face immobile, mouth rigid in a grim, no-nonsense line.
“What’s wrong?” Anthea asks. It’s about Ibrahim, it has to be.
“You are, girl.” One thing about Tissa, she never minces words. Gets straight to the point.
“What’s the problem?”
“Ibrahim. I know you took him.” Tissa raises a hand before Anthea can edge a word in. “Don’t lie to me or offer any excuses. At the moment, I’m not interested in the how or the why.”
“It was for a good reason.”
“Doesn’t matter. You know what they say. The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”
“Is that where I am now?”
Tissa lowers her hand. “I guess that depends on your definition of hell. You’ve been suspended without pay pending administrative review.”
Anthea swallows. “That’s harsh.”
“So is what you did,” Tissa retorts. “You should have come to me, gone through the proper channels.”
“There wasn’t time.”
“I could have made time. But I didn’t get the chance. Instead, you took matters into your own hands. Broke the law. Endangered not only Ibrahim and yourself but this organization and the community as a whole.”
Anthea slumps. “What’s going to happen to me?”
“I don’t know. BEAN hasn’t filed charges. Yet. I wouldn’t be surprised if you lose your position with the org.”
“I’m sorry,” Anthea says.
“I am, too,” Tissa says, the hard line of her lips softening. Then the screen goes blank.
Anthea kicks at the floor, scuffing it with her toe. “How much worse can it get?” she wonders out loud.
“ ‘The worst is not,’ ” Doug says, “ ‘So long as we can say, “This is the worst.” ’ ”
“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.” Anthea starts back down the hallway to check on Rigo’s mother.
“ ‘Come what come may, / Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.’ ”
“I think I liked you better as a pessimist,” Anthea says to the IA. “At least then I knew things were better than they looked.”
“Rigo?” Varda says.
“What?” It’s evening. He’s lying on the bed, staring up at the darkened biolum panel directly above him where Rana’s puffed-up face looms every now and then, blistering his grief-haunted retinas. He feels dead, too numb and laden with depression to move.
“It’s not the four corners of the world,” the IA says.
Rigo covers his eyes with one hand, wishing he could just be alone. “Easy for you to say.”
“Stop swallowing in self-pity.”
“Just leave me alone.”
“Come on. Pull yourself up by your purse strings.”
“I would if I had any.” Rigo rolls over onto his side and faces the wall. The moon is up and annoyingly bright. There’s no escape. It fills the room, obliterating any chance of sleep.
“I have good news,” Varda says, trying to cheer him up.
“You found me another job?” The way things are going, it’s probably in SEA or east Texas.
“I’ve located Anthea and your mother.”
Rigo sits up. “Where?”
“At a Global Upreach clinic. Your mother has been hospitalized.”
That hardly qualifies as good news. “When?”
“Two days ago.”
Rigo feels a headache coming on. Swings his legs over the edge of the bed and leans forward, head between his legs. “What happened?”
“She injured her left knee when BEAN came and took Ibrahim from her ap.”
Her left knee, Rigo thinks, the good one. Now the only way she’ll be able to get around is in a wheelchair or a specially designed exoskeleton. Too bad she can’t afford either one.
“Can I talk to her?”
“No. Your voice and e-mail are still being blocked.”
Rigo groans, rubs his face. “Isn’t there
any
thing you can do?”
“Go to the western wall,” the IA says.
“What?”
“And put on your shades.”
Rigo pushes himself to his feet, does what he’s told. Trudges over to the phosphor-bright rectangle of moonlight on the wall across from the window. Dims the light to a tolerable level by slipping on his wraparounds. “Okay, now what? I’m in the dark, here.”
“Put your hands on the wall.”
“You want me to assume the position, too?” Rigo says, spreading his feet, as if he’s about to be frisked.
“Make sure you’re touching the mesh,” Varda says.
Rigo moves his hands slightly, placing them squarely on the thermal netting. The ascorbic taste of rose hips mingles with the metallic patina.
“This might take a few minutes,” Varda says. “Hold your horse.”
“What might take a few minutes?” He feels ridiculous, like a nine-year-old about to take a surreptitious leak against the wall of a building to see if it really will get cleaned up in under ten seconds, as advertised.
This better be good, Rigo’s thinking when the first images hit the eyescreens of his wraparounds.
“What the fuck?” He jerks away from the wall, and the info stream dries up, like a plug was pulled.
“Do you want to get in touch with your mother or not?” Varda says.
“Sure, but—”
“Then keep your hands on the wall. I need to run a source code comparison and translation.”
Rigo replaces his hands on the mesh, feels the underlying layer of sound-absorbent foam dimple under the pressure of his fingers. “Translation of what?”
The IA doesn’t answer. It’s lapsed into passive-aggressive mode again—putting a little space between them so it can do its thing. Soon, images begin to trickle down the lenses of his wraparounds again— rain squiggle lines of blue, green, red, and yellow pictographic code.
“What am I looking at?” Rigo says.
“Pherions,” Varda says. “All the gengineered components of the central African ecotecture.”
“Even the people?”
“Hello. What part of ‘all’ don’t you understand?”
The lines of code increase in density, a tapestry spreading out around him. He can taste the biochemical threads it’s woven from—spec individual molecules cleaving together, multiple sequences linking up, forming a tight-knit cloth that connects everything into a single unified whole. From the largest building to the smallest insect. The fabric is suffocating in its complexity, dizzying. In no time at all, Rigo finds himself hyperventilating.
“Calm down,” Varda says. “Get a grip.”
Rigo closes his eyes, takes several deep breaths to slow his breathing. As soon as the room stops spinning, he takes another peek.
“Spit,” Varda says.
“Excuse me?”
“On your hand.”
“What for?”
“You’ll see.”
Rigo shakes his head, spits into the palm of his right hand. What the hell? He’s got nothing to lose.
“Okay,” the IA says. “Rub it on the wall.”
“This is crazy,” Rigo says as he massages the spit into the foam, leaving a damp spot.
“There you are,” Varda says, highlighting a pattern in the tapestry. “That’s you in a nut.”
He studies a highlighted string of organic code, concatenated DNA, and pherion sequences that identify him. Specs that he doesn’t fit seamlessly into the weave of the surrounding fabric. His pherion pattern doesn’t integrate smoothly. He sticks out like a strand of shiny polyester thread spliced into rough burlap, held in place by antiphers that bypass security, makes him nonthreatening to the ecotecture’s defense pherions. Rigo stares at the design, mandalalike arrangements of nested code, and feels himself slip into a dizzy entoptic drift. . . .
Cut free from the world. Numb. Like he’s had one too many beers and can’t feel anything, not even himself. One of those shitfaced benders where he feels like breaking down and crying like a baby.
He reaches out to keep from falling and, arms churning like a windmill, is stopped by the taste of blood and cloves. Concentrates on the flavor, the chemical construction it represents. Gazing at the code, he can spec reading frames in the pherion nucleotides—different ways that the amino acids can be parsed and combined—plus protein folds, valence patterns, and superposition states.
Something is happening to him,
has
happened. He can feel it in his bones, the way he did the first time he ever kicked it with a
muchacha
. Fourteen years old. Took all of a second, and he was a different person. Something more than what he’d been only a couple of heartbeats earlier, before he’d entered her . . . felt her surround and engulf him. Maria Sanchez. Eighty pounds overweight, with
chichis
the size of watermelons and a too-tight T-shirt stretched over them that said I Wish These Were Brains. Not that she was stupid or anything, just desperate, the same as him.
Permanent virgins. It was like a scarlet letter or the mark of Cain, visible for everyone to see. Afterward, Rigo thought the stigma and the shame would go away. Problem was, his boys and her girls knew they’d kicked it. Somehow, the act had changed not only their bodies but their body language. At first, out of embarrassment, he was like, Not me. No way I’d chicken bone that
puta
. Dissed her in public. Speculated as to the size and shape of the dentata lurking in the folds of fat between her legs. Nothing she deserved. Of course, out of retaliatory self-respect, she pulled the same routine, told her girlfriends she’d rather fuck a three-legged dog or a stuffed possum with a hinged
pito
. So began his road to acceptance and respectability, to where he stands at this moment.
Now he knows it wasn’t his fault, or hers. Realizes that she was one of a handful of girls he was compatible with. He’s on the low-end of the bell curve. Not a lot of data points where he’s sitting. Not like some homeboys who are hardwired for sex like rabbits. Screwed hundreds of girls by the time they were fifteen.
Thinking about Maria—the lilac scent of her sweat and how neither of them had a choice—brings an acid burn. At least he found Anthea. What if Maria never found anyone else compatible? What if he was her only shot at happiness and she was condemned to spend the rest of her life alone? Rigo hasn’t seen her in years, heard she recladed to someplace in South America, Argentina or Brazil. It’s not really his problem—he wasn’t obligated or anything—but he still feels a pang of guilt at dumping her the way he did.