Mappa Mundi (8 page)

In the pocket with the disk of stolen files he'd brought to give to Doctor Armstrong was the photograph from his sister's backpack. He took it out and looked it over yet again: his mandala. Funny how objects could freight meaning like cargo-craft, a scrap of paper as heavy as a safe full of lead. This one carried that kind of weight and served to remind him of all the great justifications he had for being here, lying to his partner, lying to his boss, getting his mother to cover, getting false papers and a bogus ID to use, just in case. In case Armstrong wasn't easy to get hold of. In case he was pushed to the point he was at now, pinned to it. And, God, he didn't want to do a cover number because that was an easy way to get caught out, but soon, in an hour or so, he was going to have to.

The photograph showed White Horse's wood-framed house, burned to the ground. He'd spent summers there, riding and hiking with her and her mother, while his own mother worked nine-to-five at a Seattle accountancy practice to keep him in school and his friends got sent to summer camps and private villas in Europe. Deer Ridge #32 was a second family home to him. He'd never realized how cheap and fragile it was until he'd seen this image.

Where the sitting room used to be a few brittle spars of black char reached up from the cinders; four fingers outstretched for help and no thumb. On the left side the washing machine was just recognizable, its door slimed with oily smoke, frame melted. Here and there were fragments of other things: the corner of the piano lid, the funny, homemade metal casket that had held the TV and radio unit, springs from the lousy guest bed that always made his back feel like he'd gone ten rounds in the ring still holding their shape like giant cartoon hair. Rills of grey smoke gathered in the shape of snakes where the table and chairs had been.

With the house out of the way and the branches of the Scots pine next door crisped up you could see a clear view of the mountains. The sky was brightly blue over their summits, a trail of cloud like a puff of cigarette smoke blurring from their tops, and the sunlight glinted in a tiny flash from the valley where the reservation wire-fence line ran alongside the narrow dirt road towards the highway.

That place was about six thousand miles away but Jude only had to touch the picture to smell the ash on the breeze and feel the tremor in his sister's hands where the camera shake had blurred the foreground into a mess of green and brown. Five years ago he'd never thought he'd see it again.

They'd had their last fight when he left the marines and joined the newly set-up Division of Special Sciences in the Federal Bureau of Investigation. There was no government agency more symbolic of all that White Horse hated about the state, and rightly so. Their father had died in one of the skirmishes during the occupation of Pine Ridge in the 1970s, and by a government bullet. Leonard Peltier eventually went down to Leavenworth for the two agents who were killed, because somebody had to go, and even though she was barely one at the time this miscarriage of justice was the primal force in shaping the political activist and passionate cultural advocate who grew up to be White Horse Jordan, Jude's half sister.

It was this part of her, and not the other parts that liked him better, that had barred him from entering that now burned-down place ever again. Many seasons ago, when it had still been standing, and about the time that Martha Johnson had opened her second store downtown, they'd exchanged their views.

“You've joined the fucking enemy!” White Horse screamed at him, her face dark with fury as she physically pushed him off the step and onto the path. “There's nothing between us any more! Nothing! Go back to your mom's rich white family and live a great life doing good for the state that loves you so much. You don't deserve Dad's name!”

Jude had been too angry to speak, but she could see what he wanted to say and cut it off with a slicing motion of her arm.

“You're betraying us. Everything. You spit on us and our history! All for your money and the power to shove little people around!”

“I'm not the one who said they were little, remember that.”

“Fuck you! Traitor.”

“And what are you? A cultural dinosaur! A fascist preservationist! Holding back everyone who follows you by forcing them to stay on bad land, in poor housing and with no prospects when they could be a part of the future and not the past. You're always whining on about history. Well, that shows there's no point in clinging sentimentally to old ways as if you were still living in the goddamn' stone age. Everything changes! Talk about spirit? You haven't got the monopoly on that end of the world. You don't own it because of the color of your skin like some fucking multiple-entry permit. Don't you think we have to change as well?”

For once he'd reduced her to jaw-breaking silence.

He didn't say the final thing in his heart, which was that he'd agreed to ditch the marines and sign on with Special Sciences because it seemed like a chance to set a thing straight that was broken; to work from the inside and force what he could of the FBI into a better, more just kind of shape. It was the sort of foolish ideal, like her own, that
White Horse would have instantly leaped on and shredded in contempt. Jude hadn't been sure that he'd have enough conviction left to carry it through. But when she got angry he pushed aside his concern that a single person made little difference inside the huge politics, especially a minor servant like him.

They had shared a final stare of mutual loathing with their chins stuck out at mirror-identical stubborn angles on that doorstep, and then, amid puzzled looks from the others standing on the lane—Jim Johnson and Marie from one lot over, Rising Wolf on the opposite side who waved and grinned because he hadn't heard what was going on—Jude had got in his car and driven out of there and never been back.

He wasn't even sure that this whole operation wasn't some big apology. But that would be like backing down, and he couldn't do that. So it wasn't. It really wasn't.

Jude put the photo back in his pocket and finished the beer. It was warm and it tasted homemade, like the stuff he and White Horse brewed one summer vacation when they thought it would be cool to copy Sam Adams. He liked it and got himself another. At the other tables tourists in flimsy pastels, dressed for a summer that never seemed to quite get started, shivered as a cloud crossed the sun. He put his jacket on and watched a few pretty girls and some curious-looking dogs pass by—slipping into the time hole with the ease of any river-bank animal.

“So, just remind me again what we're dealing with.”

Ray Innis, ginger crew-cut shining glossy as a racehorse in the weak light of the King's Arms back bar, leaned over the table towards Dan. His leather jacket creaked over the bulky shape that didn't quite fit under his armpit.

Dan looked across the table at Ray with dislike, trying not to think about the gun. Ray's bland, dispassionate face hid a core of exploitative, insensitive self-interest that was certifiable and Dan knew better than to get on the bad side of it. He kept his voice as low as he could
and separated the sides of a beer mat to make something to write on. In blotchy ballpoint he illustrated his explanation with a diagram.

“NervePath is like a computer. It's hardware. It goes inside the nervous system and the brain, right? This thing we're working on and testing is like the software; what makes the NervePath work. It's going to be called Mappaware.”

“What for?”

“It's Latin.” Dan thought he managed to say it without hinting that Ray was an ignorant, uneducated, barbarian bastard but it was hard to tell. Ray had a mind like a cheap personal organizer with low processing power; what it didn't deal with now it stored for later. Somewhere inside it was a ledger with all of Dan's credits and debits painstakingly printed and Dan had this feeling that he was in the red.

“And you think this stuff will start to take off when?” Ray pocketed the half-mat without looking at it, his pale blue eyes fixed on Dan the whole time.

“I don't know. Like I said. A while.”

“And it has potential for a bit of creative marketing? You could write some of this yourself? Dreams, fantasies…”

“It's not porn, for fuck's sake!” Dan hissed at him, unable to prevent himself. He looked around them both quickly, but nobody seemed to notice them. They knew Ray and his dealings.

Ray's stare didn't waver.

Dan said, “It'd do something more like make you happy, if you were down, you know? Make you like your job. Make you better at, I don't know, typing or something.” He wasn't prepared for what Ray did next. He was hoping that he'd be able to put off Ray's interest long enough for Dan himself to get out of what he owed him and out of the United Kingdom before Ray cottoned on to the full potentials of black-market mind control.

Ray took a brown envelope from his pocket and put it into Dan's pocket.

“What the—” Dan started to say. He didn't want favours from Ray.

“A retainer,” Ray said, holding the envelope in its place and daring Dan to do anything about it. The cheap finish on his hair gleamed like new pennies. “Got to keep you on my side, haven't I? Got to keep things businesslike, old son. Here's a little bit of interest. More where that came from. All you do is keep me informed. I can't say fairer than that now, eh? And we'll say no more about what you owe me.”

Ray wanted a lot more than that, Dan knew, or would do when the time came. He was thinking big, for a small-time dealer. Dan opened his mouth to object, but nothing came out.

“You know your trouble, Dan old son? You think too much.” Ray eased out of his seat and let a fiver fall from his fingers to buy Dan another drink. It lay on the table like a dead leaf.

From his six foot six he looked down and Dan felt himself about five years old; that small, that naive, that weak. Ray didn't need to say anything else. Dan knew it all. But Ray was “feeling his verbals” today, as he would have said. He maintained eye contact with Dan for a few more seconds. He was smiling as he bent low to Dan's ear and whispered, his breath as sweet and pure as a baby's, “It's all porn, love. In the end.”

Dan waited until he was sure Ray was long gone and stood up, feeling ill. He went into the men's room, locked himself in a stall, and looked in the envelope. Five thousand in used notes and a grand's worth of doctored heroin that gave all the high and none of the trouble after: pure gold.

Dan's guts tried to turn over. Ray really was thinking of becoming the next black-market baron. Dan was going to be his court fool. It all seemed so far from that time he'd been off his face and had mentioned the NervePath to Ray's associate, Ed. Why had he said anything? Maybe it had been to get some coke when he was on his bad ride, during finals. Maybe it had been then. Christ.

When he heard another man come into the room he got out of the stall and made to wash his hands. He washed his face with cold water
too and looked at himself in the mirror: happy-go-lucky floppy-haired Dan, the lad with no harm in him. Reminding himself of this character made him feel better. He didn't mean any bad. He wasn't able to. Not him. Was that the beginning of lines around his mouth? He sneaked a tube of Estée Lauder Active Regenerator from his pocket and rubbed it in carefully. The first sharp start of the day's beard under his fingers made him wince.

Outside the pub on the riverwalk the crowds were already thickening as the sun came out, teasing the boat crews of the cruisers with hints that they might come back for the afternoon sailing. As he hesitated between going back for another drink or returning to work Dan saw an exceptionally handsome man on his own, sitting staring at the river. He wouldn't have paid attention—Dan knew when he had a hope and when he hadn't—except that he didn't look English, he looked American. There was something about the way he wore his dark, expensive clothes. No English person put a turtleneck and an open-collar jacket together that way. And he was kind of exotic, a half-and-half of some kind, and better-looking than anyone Dan had seen all year, even with that haircut that didn't know if it was long or short. In fact, he looked like Dan would have wanted to be—calm, professional, at ease, enjoying the afternoon without a care in the world. Dan watched for a full thirty seconds but he didn't get an eye contact. Straight, too. Bad luck.

Shrugging his own jacket closer around him, Dan set off for the bus stop. He wondered how he could tell Natalie about Ray. She might be able to help him out of this. But no. She was already in enough difficulties with the project itself and the keen interest of the Ministry—and her “stalker.” It would have to wait. And there was the Ministry woman, too, always on his back about the Clinic and the staff. But she could wait and all. He didn't like so much being on his mind at once, he just wanted it all to go away and not matter. If only he could get enough money together he could cut and run and go somewhere where
it wouldn't matter. At the travel agent's on Market Street they were offering flights to Australia for only a grand and a half. Really, thinking of it like that, he could go any time, if things turned that bad. If it weren't for Natalie he'd go today.

Dan got on the bus at Micklegate Bridge and watched the streets wind him around and around until he didn't know which direction he was facing.

“I'm sorry,” said the man from the Ministry, “but it's out of the question.”

Natalie ground her teeth together and tried to appear normal as she did so but that, too, was getting beyond a joke. “I don't see how you make the distinction,” she said finally. “It has no scientific basis.”

“No, maybe not. But it has a priority basis. The Ministry doesn't view your research as immediately relevant. Selfware,” and he paused, rolling the word around his mouth like a gobstopper that didn't taste good. “It's theoretical, even metaphysical. Its consequences may be profound for the individual, but they have no obvious immediate application outside some kind of self-perfecting or self-advancing endeavour, and that's not something our paymasters are interested in right now.”

“It's no more theoretical than the Mappa Mundi project!” Natalie retorted. “It shares a lot of fundamental technology. It rests on exactly the same conjectures. My whole contribution to that arena—a highly successful project so far, I might add—has been in terms of the work I've done on Selfware. You must see that. My work is an extension to Mappa Mundi. It isn't different in any way.”

“Yes. And excellent work it's been. Here,” and he pointed at the paper files on the desk, “are many recommendations and notices from your bosses. I can see that where the two different areas overlap you've done pioneering and invaluable work.” He smiled at her with genuine
admiration and Natalie wondered,
Why? Why soft-soap me and talk when you won't give in? And it's all right for you, you've got your job saying no to people like me and there's nothing I can do.

She tried her final, desperate card. “This clinic has to turn away patients my research would potentially help. Depression on its own robs the whole country of millions of man days a year, blights lives. That could change. Even in the army people must get depressed…” But it was a losing wicket and she gave it up, because the light in Glover's eyes hadn't changed a bit. He was unchallenging, calm, approving.

“No licence, then?” she said.

“I'm sorry.” He gathered her papers together and laid them in his case, edges lined up under the Top Secret stamp that looked to Natalie like something you got in a kid's detective set. “Of course, you can still practise and assist in the work that your father will be supervising. The Mappa project as a whole continues. And the majority of your work, even in Selfware, is effectively being tested in our trials on that, isn't it?”

“When, then?”

He spread his fingers out on the closed lid of his briefcase and tried not to look at the wall clock. “I can't say. I'm sure that once Mappaware is fully licensed for commercial use, say in another five or six years, that it wouldn't be that long. Personally—” he relaxed, letting the stiff line of his shoulders drop forwards “—I found your reports fascinating. Expanded states of consciousness, hyperperception, evolution of the mind, testing the existence of the soul: real superman stuff. If it was up to me…”

“Yeah,” Natalie said around the six- or seven-year-rock in her throat. “Thanks.”

“Well, then.”

And it was over for another year. The Ministry interview.

Natalie heard the door close behind her as she stood in the plush corridor of the offices wing and wondered how many more interviews it would take, and at what date and time the Chinese or the Americans
or some backstreet genius would beat her to publication and patent. On top of that she also had her father to face again, and wouldn't
he
be full of consolation? Most likely he'd snort derisively and that would be the verdict on her entire career: wasted on a futile direction of enquiry more suited to vicars, gurus, and other snake-oil merchants. She set off back to her own section of the Clinic.

At the drinks machine in the Research Sciences Lounge she typed for a can of cola and got lemonade. Popping the seal and swigging the nasty, oversweetened fizz inside, she reflected that, of course, she shouldn't be in it for herself. What did it matter who helped who first as long as someone got saved? Her pager went off in her pocket, vibrating with the sudden urgency that always made her imagine a small animal wired to the eyeballs on caffeine. She glanced at the screen note it displayed, which was from Reception. It said, “Man here to upgrade Treatment Rooms. You to meet.”

Natalie felt ready to throw in the towel. There was no way she had time to take anyone into BioSafetyLevel-
₄
areas, with their showers and suits and all that palaver. Anyway, it was Dan's job and where was he? He should be here by now with the sandwiches—he'd been gone fifty minutes. It was almost half past two and she had meetings all afternoon.

She took another mouthful of her drink and then tossed the half-f can into the bin on her way to reception, trying to fight the desire to give whoever was there a mouthful about their timing. She'd heard nothing about any upgrades from the supplier although, given the week's record, that was nothing surprising. Once she reached the desk however, she changed her mind.

The NervePath systems engineer was gorgeous. Not just merely handsome or kind of attractive in an interesting way but pulse-jacking, heart-crushing, punch-in-the-gut primordial.

Natalie slowed right down on approach to let the blush fade and took her time watching him, wondering if maybe she could skip the catch-up parts of the meetings and only return for discussion, giving
her an easy hour of clear time. She knew it wasn't possible with a project as complex as Mappa Mundi, but she wished it were.

The systems engineer was talking to Dan's friend, the senior nurse, Edie Charlton, who was so intent on him that she didn't register Natalie's arrival until she noticed him looking over her shoulder. Edie muttered a quick introduction, and Natalie saw his soft, interested gaze sharpen as he noted her name, although she was too busy noticing him to wonder why.

Until now she hadn't had a type or even looked for one. Men were an oblique concept, people with different outer casings whom she barely noticed in a sexual way. Natalie had work, like Slow Joe said, not a life. Maybe now that her chance for fully fledged independent research was gone again the neglected bits of her brain were waking up. Whatever it was, she felt suddenly self-conscious and despairingly hopeful, acutely aware of her sexless appearance in the lab whites and grey suit, the fact that she forgot her lipstick, the sweat trying to leap up all over her as she played it cool.

“I didn't realize an upgrade was due out yet,” she said, thinking,
Yes, keep it businesslike, you've no chance anyway.

“It's a bug fix,” the engineer said easily. His accent was one of those transatlantic ones that drifted about between English and American. His name badge identified him to her pocketpad as Jason Hilbert, PathSystems Employee No. 14781, certified engineer rating 04, MoD-cleared.

“Not in the log,” Nurse Charlton murmured, although she didn't seem very bothered about that minor security niggle either. She broke from smiling at him to share a glance with Natalie; the visual equivalent of a wolf whistle.

“I should check with your office, if you don't mind,” Natalie said, face straight. “We don't have you on our file.”

“Please.” He nodded, his big, blue BSL-
₄
oversuit rustling as he set his case down and smiled—a big, white-toothed smile that Natalie, just for a second or two, thought was nervous. When he smiled, though, he looked even better. He looked dangerous.

You are such an idiot
, Natalie reminded herself.
Stop it.

“New to the job?” she asked. There was something familiar about him. But she knew she'd remember if she'd seen him before. He was quite a lot taller than she was—wasn't everyone?—and athletic under the coveralls. It was the eyes that caught her, though. They had a sparkle she only associated with someone showing genuine interest, even though that might more usually be directed at the figure of Charlton than herself. It was confusing her.

“Three months in,” he said. “Takes a long time to pass the exams.”

The PathSystems office machine returned a verify code and Natalie had to be satisfied.

“Where's Dan? Have you paged him?” she asked Charlton.

“He's on his way back from town. Why don't you open up the systems and he can take over when he gets here? I wouldn't have asked you only,” and she smiled wryly, “Mister Hilbert says you have a friend in common.”

“Oh?” That seemed very unlikely.

“Charles Dyer, at Cambridge,” Hilbert said quickly.

Natalie nodded, “Oh yeah.” She gestured towards the walkway that led to the heart of the clinic and they began moving towards the doors into the Therapy Centre. He moved confidently at her side, carrying the weight of his case easily, although she could tell it was heavy. Charles Dyer had overseen her PhD work. It was possible Hilbert could have studied in the same department, but why would he choose to be an engineer when he'd been taking blue-sky courses at university?

“I know. I did MA work there after you'd gone,” he added. “Professor Dyer helped me out a lot and you were mentioned. I used some of your past research papers.”

“Really?” Natalie was suddenly feeling less confident than she had a moment ago. It wasn't because of Dyer, or what he was saying, just something about the voice. “Which ones?” She held open the doors and Hilbert and his case passed inside. She swiped the inner doors to
the treatment areas with her security pass and showed him through into the airlock.

“'Memetic Mapping of Ground State Axioms' and ‘Metaphoric Process Conversion Theory.'” He didn't slip in saying it. She listened to the lilt of the syllables.

As they were forced to pause for air filtration and test, Natalie put her security card in her pocket.
Fuck it
, she thought.
Perfect and bonkers.
She turned towards him and looked into his dark, honest eyes.

“You don't know Charles Dyer, do you?”

Natalie Armstrong was not as Jude had imagined her in the flesh. She resembled her pictures only in a strictly technical way. In fact, her whole face was split dramatically down the middle: animated on the left, deadpan on the right. Its large, tilted grey eyes were still and focused. They looked straight through into the core of him with unnerving calm. Under her spiky magenta hair the effect was startling and direct. What the photographs had failed to communicate, and what he hadn't been prepared for, was the fast-snapping intelligence that sat right behind those eyes and expressed itself so vividly left of centre. He didn't think she'd bought his story for more than half a second straight. He felt the beat of blood in his neck beneath the suit's tight collar.

“No,” he admitted and put his cases down. “I went to MIT, did biology, went into the marines, and got poached into a special branch of—” He hesitated, seeing her face wrap itself around a sardonic look as she mouthed silently, “…the FBI.”

The line of her extraordinary mouth encompassed humour, resignation, and disappointment all at once. He found himself staring at its muscular precision with unprofessional speculation.

“Yeah.” It was a moment or so dawning but he realized that she must have been the one he spoke to that first night on the hotline. “Listen, I guess this isn't a very good start, but I tried a legitimate way and—”

“Okay.” She held her hands up and already looked infinitely sick of pretending to believe him. “You've tried very hard to get hold of me. We're here for five minutes anyway because of the safety systems and the airlock prep-time for the BSL-
₄
zone, so you've got that long. I have to be in a meeting and I don't have time for whatever spying, blackmail, or looney-tunes you've got. So make sure you fit it all in.”

Jude rubbed his face with his hand. He suddenly wasn't sure he could persuade her, and he wasn't even sure that what he had was worth her contempt. The weariness of the last seventy-two hours crept through him, numbing his limbs, but he took out his Pad and showed her the screen. Shakily he cued a photograph and she, looking bored, gazed impassively at it.

He took a second to register his own irritation with her attitude and it gave him the energy to speak forcefully, “This is me and my sister, aged eighteen and seventeen.”

“Mmn.” Neutral. She glanced at his face, gaze flicking across it like she was examining a portrait for likenesses.

Jude pointed at the screen, “This is her house. That in the background is Deer Ridge. This line is where the reservation's boundary runs and this—” he changed views “—is the town of Deer Ridge itself. Bar, bingo, stores, gas station. Your average American backwater.”

“Mmn hmm.” Still listening, but watching his face more than the Pad. Maybe she thought he was crazy. He'd thought so before now.

“This is her house as it is now.” He showed her the Polaroid from his pocket.

Armstrong took it and looked it over. Her left eyebrow dropped fractionally into a demi-frown and was corrected. “Nasty. She wasn't in it?”