Authors: Thomas Claburn
There are no bots at the counter; this is business with a human touch, the business of moving merchandise to the living. Actual funeral services represent a loss leader to Smith & Sons. Unqualified life-insurance policies and “I survived Smith & Sons” T-shirts are among its most popular money-making SKU’s, along with overpriced in-memoriam videos. But the company makes the bulk of its revenue from bottled water sales, boosted by the aerosolized desiccant pumped through the ventilation system to preserve the dead.
Beyond the merchandise gauntlet, the corridor is lined with marquees displaying names and showtimes. On Number17, Sam spots “Jacob Gaur, 13:05.” The line scrolls off-screen to display the next service: “Amelie Ours, 13:20.”
A vacuum bot the size of a footstool stops in the doorway to allow Sam to pass, but only manages to block the entrance of the theater. It seems to be trying to get out of the way, but evidently either its collision-detection scheme or its sensors aren’t working. Exasperated, he steps on it to climb over.
In response, the bot begins to cry, a sympathy-based defense against potential vandalism. It sounds like a newborn with the lungs of a foghorn. Pretty much everyone in the building notices. Those who can see Sam glare at him.
“Sorry, sorry,” he says, stepping back and trying again to go around.
It only takes a moment before an attendant hurries over and deactivates the bot. “Please try to respect the sanctity of our property,” the young man whispers.
Sam just nods, glad to move on.
In the theater, a picture of Jacob is projected onto the wall where the movie screen once hung. Something about the size and composition of the image makes it resemble the sort of “Glorious Leader” portraiture favored by despots bent on building a cult of personality. Front and center, a brick of compressed ash—the cremains and a nonperishable binding agent—sits atop a podium. Next to the brick sits a microphone, as if to catch any final words.
Nial Fox sits cradled in his trench coat in the front row of the all-but-empty theater. He turns and nods as Sam comes down the aisle. Two of Sam’s neighbors from Maerskton are also present, along with an older woman he doesn’t recognize.
Moments after Sam arrives, a Smith & Sons staff priest hurries in, looking at his watch. He’s a slight man, but he seems agile for his age. “Good, good,” he says as he takes his place behind the podium, still catching his breath. “We’re all here.”
He nods toward the control booth at the back of the theater and says, “Thank you all for coming. We’re here to celebrate the life of Jacob Gaur. We’ll begin by flashing Jacob’s life before your eyes. Afterwards, Mr. Crane will read a brief eulogy, and then anyone else who cares to offer a remembrance may do so. Please remember that we must clear the theater by 1:15, as we have another service soon after. After the service, please feel free to gather in the departure lounge for drinks and light refreshments.”
Swinging his arm in a full circle, the priest signals the start of the show. The lights fade and Jacob’s portrait is replaced by video from his personal log. To avoid potential liability, the selected clips rush by at high speed, leaving only glimpses and impressions of Jacob’s life. When it’s done, Sam feels like he’s dreamed about Jacob, but can’t remember the specifics.
He stumbles through his speech, soured on the words he cobbled together. There’s really not much to say. Death sucks.
One of Jacob’s neighbors offers a brief anecdote, but Sam doesn’t pay attention. He’s thinking about Fiona.
Then it’s over, more a pit stop than a service. Sam signs the release form that authorizes the use of the brick baked from Jacob’s cremains in a downtown construction project, avoiding the expense of a dispersal permit. He requests that the brick be placed close to the ground because Jacob was afraid of heights.
When Sam emerges from the theater, he finds Nial waiting outside, hands in his pockets. “Thanks for coming, Nial,” he says. “I appreciate it.”
Nial nods. “Guess what I was doing about an hour ago.”
“How about you tell me? I’m not really in a guessing mood.”
“I was entertaining the Feds in my office,” Nial says, his voice serrated with irritation.
“Yeah, they’re sniffing around.”
“Go on.”
“Walk with me. I need something to drink.”
The two men head back toward the concession stand. Sam buys a bottle of water. Then they head for the exit.
“Did you ever find the glasses you were looking for?” Nial asks.
“I thought you weren’t working Jacob’s murder,” Sam says skeptically.
“I wasn’t, but I get curious when the Feds download my files. And this wasn’t one guy. It was an army. We’re talking about a large-scale investigation. Something big is going down.”
Sam leans closer and lowers his voice as they pass a group of distraught people. “Well, Jacob may have been killed by terrorist named Emil Caddis,” he confides. “They’ve been tracking him for a while. I’m trying to find out more myself.”
Nial scoffs. “Unless Jacob was trafficking nukes or something worse, that just doesn’t make sense.”
“I’m beginning to think it may have been the latter, though Jacob didn’t realize it,” Sam says, his voice trailing off.
“Explain.”
They emerge from Smith & Sons squinting. Torn candy wrappers tumble in the wind’s tide. Cars crawl by.
Sam shakes his head. “It’s not just that there’s no money in it, Nial,” he says.
“Alright, I deserved that. Now how about we start fresh and talk.”
“I would, but it’s my anger,” Sam says, savoring the sarcasm. “It clouds my judgment.” With a wave, he turns to go. He knows he could use Nial’s help, but revenge takes precedence.
“You’re a jackass, Sam,” Nial shouts.
Sam just nods.
Two doctors are conferring at the foot of Fiona’s bed when Sam arrives. His daughter is convulsing; an orderly is binding her with restraints. The blinds are leveled. Slivers of light stab through. He imagines watching a bullfight from within the belly of the beast.
“This would be the father,” one of the doctors says, turning toward Sam. Though short, she stands with the posture of a ballerina determined to get every inch of height from her vertebrae. Her skin is light brown. Her surgical scrubs are pale green. She introduces herself as Adena Pangolin, chief neurology resident.
Her beefy colleague extends his hand. “Avram Jird, Director of Neuropharmacology,” he says—though Sam half-expects something more fitting for his physique, like “bodyguard.”
“What’s going on?” Sam asks. “She’s moving!”
Dr. Jird offers a reassuring smile. “We’ve given her a tailored protein cocktail. It stimulates the mitochondria in her muscle cells as if she’d been exercising. Think of it as a liquid workout. It’ll cut down her time in physical therapy substantially.”
“That’s assuming she comes out of the coma,” Sam retorts.
“Yes.”
“Is she in pain?” Sam approaches the bed.
“Not really. It feels like a cramp if you’re conscious.”
Sam feels like he’s the one convulsing. “Are you sure she’s okay?”
Dr. Pangolin asks, “Did you review any of the video material you were sent?”
“No. Sorry. I just haven’t had time,” Sam admits.
Dr. Jird offers a vaguely accusatory nod. “By monitoring her brain activity in this phase, we hope to get a detailed neural map from which we can determine whether the damage to your daughter’s brain needs to be addressed with a counter-hemorrhagic or a psychotropic.”
Fiona mumbles something, her expression fluctuating. Her nose needs to be wiped.
“Would you like a peek inside her mind?” asks Dr. Pangolin.
“How do you mean?”
“We can wire you to an fMRI scanner that maps active areas of her brain onto yours.”
It takes Sam a moment to imagine this. “So I’ll see her dreams?”
“No, we’ve not been able to reverse-engineer source perception from synaptic activity. But based on her mental activity, we can fire analogous areas in your brain. We call it synaptic mirroring. It’s more or less a random tour through your past, but it should give you a sense of what she’s going through.”
“I’m going to observe her for a few more minutes,” Dr. Jird assures.
Sam shrugs. “Okay, I’ll give it a try, I suppose.”
Dr. Pangolin leads the way into the corridor. “Do you usually offer brain tours?” Sam asks her, only half in jest.
“No. We’re still trying to determine if synaptic mirroring has any real application.”
A delivery bot rolls by, following a path it alone sees. Placing her hand on an access scanner, Dr. Pangolin enters a lab that resembles a video-production studio.
Beyond the control board, dials, and monitors, there’s an fMRI flatbed and a few more diagnostic machines Sam doesn’t recognize. A lab tech is lying on his back on the floor, reaching up to calibrate one of them. Atop the console, a half-eaten Bird In The Bun sandwich rests in a blossom of greasy wrapping paper. Beside it towers a super-sized Global Cola.
“Hi, Ted,” Dr. Pangolin says. “Remember the EEG transform we did the other day?”
He looks up. “Sure.”
“Mr. Crane here has volunteered to give it a try.”
Looking somewhat surprised, Ted nods and rises. “I’ll make the patches. What room is the feed coming from?”
“305.”
He disappears through a door at the far end of the control room. A minute passes in silence.
Sam starts to worry. “Is this standard practice?” he asks.
“No, but it’s completely safe.”
Unconvinced, Sam folds his arms. “What’s going on?”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, I don’t think a doctor has ever spent more than five minutes with me before, much less invited me to play around on the machinery. I find this all very…unusual.”
Dr. Pangolin smiles. “It’s not every day we get a chance to entertain a friend of Mr. Cayman’s.”
“Who told you that I knew him?” he asks bemusedly.
“Dr. Dunnart.”
“And what did he say?”
“Just that Mr. Cayman wanted to make sure you and your daughter were taken care of.”
“Those were his exact words?”
Dr. Pangolin pauses for a moment. “As near as I can recall.”
Sam takes a step toward her. “I want to see Dr. Dunnart.”
Dr. Pangolin steps back. “Mr. Crane, there’s no need—”
“Stop. Take me to him.”
“He’s at a conference in Miami.”
“Call Cayman, then.”
“Mr. Crane,” Dr. Pangolin protests, “I don’t appreciate being bullied.”
“Get over it,” Sam snaps. “That’s what happens when you play games with my kid.”
Dr. Pangolin looks dismayed. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m not Cayman’s friend. I’ve never met the man. But he got my daughter into this drug trial. And now he’s saying we’re old pals and is pushing to get me into a brain scanner? Does that sound odd to you?”
“I guess.”
“It’s less so when you know that I’m investigating the death of Xian Mako. Does that name ring a bell?”
“I met him briefly.”
“I think that Cayman is involved somehow. And if he is, it fits that he’d want a hold over me.”
“Mr. Crane—”
“If there’s anyone being bullied here, it’s me,” Sam insists. “It’s an implied threat. That’s why we need to have a few words. Will you help me?”
With an exaggerated sigh, Dr. Pangolin relents. “Alright, I’ll give it a try.” She summons her agent and places the call.
After a brief delay, Cayman’s agent answers, then queries her employer. The ambient sound of an outdoor location can suddenly be heard.
“Harris Cayman here. What can I do for you, Doctor?”
“I’m here with Sam Crane, the father of one of the kids in the Lucidan trial.”
A laugh. “Hello, Sam. A pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
“I take it you’re the one who wants to chat?”
“The doctor is just running the switchboard.”
“Well, I’m engaged at the moment, but I have some time tomorrow. Have you been to Havanaland before?”
“No.”
“What fun. You’ll have a ball. I’ll send my jet to fetch you. Be at home by five today.”
It takes a moment for Sam to respond. The opportunity to question Cayman in person might not present itself again. “Okay,” he says finally. “What about Fiona?”
“I’m sure Dr. Pangolin and her staff will take good care of her. And I won’t detain you for long. Fair enough?”
“Sure. I’ll be ready.”
“Splendid. Ciao.”
Dr. Pangolin’s agent announces the termination of the call.
“Thanks,” Sam says, unsettled by the encounter.
Dr. Pangolin nods. “I hope things work out for you.”
“Just take care of Fiona,” he says. Without waiting for a reply, he retraces his steps to his daughter’s room. He knows he should feel grateful that his daughter is in a private research hospital. It’s a lot cleaner and quieter, to be sure. But it feels like he has a gun to his head.
Fiona has settled down somewhat. Dr. Jird is still there, monitoring her on his handheld tablet. “Back so soon?”
“I’d like a minute alone with her,” Sam says.
“Of course,” Dr. Jird says with practiced deference. “Take as much time as you need. I’ll be back shortly.” He steps out.
The family photos Sam loaded into the wall display dissolve from one to the next: Fiona in silhouette, a plastic pail in hand, entranced by the sun sinking into the sea; Sandra buried in sand, much to the amusement of a gleeful little girl.
His late wife. Not late—absent. There’s a difference. Her face is a hammer in his head. He commands Marilyn to license some landscapes as temporary replacements. There are never any people in stock landscapes—a fact that goes a long way toward explaining their appeal.
Sam touches Fiona on the forehead, though fever isn’t really a concern. What began as a diagnostic act now serves as an expression of affection. He notices her nails have been trimmed since yesterday. That speaks well of the Zvista staff.
Leaning over to whisper in her ear, he tells his daughter that he may be away for a few days. Someone will stop by, he says, without knowing who it will be. His mother-in-law perhaps, or maybe Tony. A kiss on the cheek seals the deal. Her skin smells medicinal, like the antiseptic used to wash the bedridden.