Cog (3 page)

“There’s something you need to know about Wills. And I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you this at such a time.”

“About Wills? What are you talking about? Is he all right?” She grabbed his arm, digging her nails into his suit jacket. Her heart began to pound again. If something had happened to him, too…

“I’m sure he’s fine.”

“What do you mean you’re sure he’s fine? You said he was on his way. What are you talking about?”

“We haven’t seen Wills since ten thirty this morning. And there’s a large amount of money missing from the company. Fifty billion dollars. All calls to him are diverted to an answering service.”

“What? Fifty billion?” Nicholle said. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“We were hoping it wasn’t what we thought. When was the last time you saw him?”

“About a week ago. We took the scramjet to Mexico for Jera’s wedding.”

“How did he seem?”

Nicholle fought hard to think back to the trip…past recent events, past worry, doubt, and guilt. He’d been more quiet than usual, but, nothing out of the ordinary. In classic Wills style, he had managed to inform her of various esoteric facts. They rattled around in the back of her consciousness—Nazi SS officers had their blood type tattooed on their left armpit; the only rock that floats is pumice; Pierre Picaud inspired
The Count of Monte Cristo
.

“I need a drink,” she said. She left her node address on the hospital’s ‘Notify Immediately’ list. They’d cog her if anything changed, at least that’s what the doctor said. Dr. Lars would probably activate the euthanasia process tonight if given the chance.

“A drink?” Chris said. “I don’t thi—”

“I don’t want to hear it.” She snatched up her purse and headed out the magfield. The closest bar was Malabo’s, one block over. Chris caught up and escorted her, silent, though one glance told her he was holding back a spew of disapproval.
Fine
. The last person’s approval she wanted was his.

She cogged Wills the whole way there, hoping he would answer and say it was all just a joke. But he didn’t pick up.

b

Malabo’s typified the encroaching African-Chinese subculture—walls adorned with large wildlife batiks, flanked by Chinese tiger paintings. The blend was almost seamless, one of the reasons she kept coming back.

“Whiskey shot, double,” she said. She took a seat at the end of the bar, facing the door. Old habit. The bartender smacked a double shot glass on the counter and filled it with the golden liquid. She cogged the cost, tapping her thumb on her temple, then downed the glass. She had almost forgotten the burn. Closed her eyes and relished the remembrance.

Chris cleared his throat. She ignored him until the last of the burn faded.

“So why do you want to know how Wills seemed? If you’re asking whether he told me he planned on stealing company money and leaving town, then no. He didn’t,” she said. “So what do you want from me, Chris?” He must have wanted something, otherwise he wouldn’t have spent so much time with her, especially in a bar.

“In addition to current…incidents, it’s not yet widely known, but American Hologram is about to be audited by Innerworld Revenue. We’ve sold off some assets to keep the ratios up and managed to keep it out of the media so far. But it’s going to hit when we file the quarterly reports. And when it does, I think we’ll get less of a negative impact from our subscribers if there’s some family continuity.”

“Continuity? What are you talking about? You want me to take over the company?”

Two small dents cleft between his eyebrows, alerting her to the gravity of the situation.

“Yes, at least for a little while.”

“Well, well. So now you want me? Will it be for longer than three weeks this time?”

“I know you’re not bringing up the internship issue,” Chris said. He averted his gaze, toward the window. The dents deepened.

“If there’s one thing I learned from that, it’s that people rarely change. If ever.”

“You were in over your head and you knew it.”

“I needed help, not a push out the door.”

“You were kissing your father’s ass too much to worry about what you wanted.”

“That coming from the expert on kissing my father’s ass.”

The warmth in his eyes at the hospital had dissipated like alcohol in blue flame.
“You found a job you loved. Why are you blaming me for that?”

“It was the way you did it. You enjoyed it. Like some sadistic pervert.”

The bartender glanced over and sucked his tooth. A warning. Chris ignored it.

“Bullshit. The longer it dragged out, the harder it would’ve been. You wanted to wait around, let your father tell you what and who you should be.
I
knew that job wasn’t you.”

“And since when did you become the expert on me?” She strained her voice to keep from yelling. “My relationship with my father is none of your business.”

“You know what? We can sit here all day going round and round. Meanwhile, your father’s in a coma and the company’s about to tank. I’m asking you, on your father’s behalf, to step in and help save what he started. If we go down, thousands of people will lose their jobs. Now either you’re in or you’re not. Your choice.”

Nicholle swallowed, hard. “You’ve changed from the happy-go-lucky techru you were a year ago.”

“I grew up,” he said.

Feeling suffocated, Nicholle got up and pushed past him. She walked to the bar front and leaned against the window, pressing the side of her forehead on the cool glass. It had started to rain and beads of water snaked down the pane, leaving thin trails. Cars crowded the airways, signaling the beginning of rush hour.

Everything was hitting close to home, her father, her brother, the family company. The last thing she wanted to do was take on more responsibility in her state of mind. She walked back and paced in front of the antique jukebox.

Sometimes she couldn’t help but wonder where she would be if she had stayed on the streets. If her brother hadn’t given her the ultimatum that he would clean out her accounts if she didn’t sober up and come home.

The old feelings surfaced: fear, revulsion, guilt. Fear of dying in a cold back alley with no one finding her body for weeks afterward. Revulsion at her addiction, at her perceived weakness at not being able to ‘just say no.’ Guilt at having left, without warning, those whom she’d befriended.
Even Tuma.

She remembered feeming pakz and skeemz when she used to get high. The pakz delivered a more visceral feeling, the direct rush of drugs injected into the blood stream by medinites. You still saw reality, but you didn’t care. Yet, there was that needling prick in the back of your mind, reminding you that your reality was what you were going to have to deal with when you came back.

Skeemz, on the other hand, stimulated the imagination beyond one’s natural ability, creating a feeling of frenzied euphoria. Your reality would wait forever. Seemed as if the programmers discovered new and different ways each week to simulate an endorphin rush. Customized programs cost more, but offered to change the way you perceived your world.

I wonder how I’d perceive all of this on skeemz?

She sidled back to the bar, arms crossed. “I’m a curator at a holographic museum. No one is going to take me seriously,” she said.

“I’ll handle senior management and the auditors,” Chris said. “You just look like you’re in charge. That should be easy. You’ve acted before.”

She squeezed her thumb until the medinites lowered the barriers. The flush of the whiskey warmed her, and a gleeful disposition eased across her mind. It’d been a long time.

Responsibility, duty…what did it really get you in life? Boredom. But her father needed her. She’d disappointed him before; she wasn’t about to do it again. She released her thumb and the flush subsided. Duty called.

“I’ll do it,” she said.

“Good. I’ll tell the employees and assign you a bodyguard.”

“Bodyguard?”

“Standard issue for a corporate executive. I’ll send him over this evening. You two can meet and set up a schedule.”

“But—”

Chris tapped Nicholle on the side of her shoulder with a fist. “Thanks, Nicholle. See you later.”

Nicholle’s stomach coiled into a knot as she watched Chris rush out the door. What did she know about running a wireless hologram service provider? Her company internship had been an admitted—never to Chris—disaster. But she wouldn’t need to know anything. Chris would do all the work.
Right?

She pulled out a cigarette and tapped the end on the edge of the counter. It lit up. She liked her nicotine the old-fashioned way. She sat down at the bar and crossed her arms, mashing her thumb under her elbow. The flush returned.
Welcome home
.

Chapter 3

Walking into Riklo Castor’s office was like walking into a gamer shop—a new feature every day. Today’s works of art were a
holo of Taliesin West,
Dogs Playing Poker
, and
The Thinker
. The building and dogs stood off to the side, while the statue sat in the middle of the room. Nicholle stepped through
The Thinker
. Riklo didn’t know much about art, although he pretended he did. Nicholle let him have his fantasy.

Riklo looked up when she approached his desk. He wore last year’s look of slicked-back hair and a skinny tie. As he was tall and wiry, the tie made him look thinner.

“Nicholle. Good. I just cogged Henri at the Louvre. We’re still in the running but they won’t make a decision until next week. Now as far as the Prado is concerned—”

“Riklo, I have to leave,” she said.

“For where, the Louvre? The personal touch. Good thinking.” He shook a finger in her direction.

“No, the job. I have to leave the job.”

He gave her a double take.

“What are you talking about? Did you get a better offer from another museum? I’ll match it. Plus a bonus.” He stood up, boring his knuckles into the exposed wood from underneath a scattered hodgepodge of wi-papers. “You can’t leave me now. We have an exhibit coming up that I’m hoping will raise money from the patrons. Especially Mr. Garampo.”

A 2D Diego Rivera print hung on the far wall.
The Flower Vendor
looked at her and Riklo with interest as she sold another batch of calla lilies to a girl in pigtails.

“My father’s in a coma,” Nicholle said. She sat down and leaned her head back on the chair, browsing the orange and blue bas relief ceiling tile, amazed that she was still coherent after leaving the hospital. The events of the day had left her unable to think beyond basic daily functions.

“A coma? Fema,” he cursed. “I’m sorry, Nick.
I didn’t know,” Riklo said. “How’d it happen?” He sat down in the leather chair and folded his hands across the desk, like a first-grader waiting for recess.

“The doctors don’t know. They can’t say when he’ll come out of it.” She neglected to mention the living will stipulation. It was enough of a nightmare. She didn’t want to relive it. “The head of IT asked me to take over as acting president, for the time being, until my brother gets back from out of town.”
If he gets back.

“Can you handle that, with everything going on?” He sounded condescending
, as if eager to hear a no in reply.

“It’s not about me anymore. If I don’t go, the company may lose more jobs than if I do go. Believe me, I wouldn’t leave if I didn’t think I had to.”

Riklo may have had no sense of art, but he was a decent boss. He’d been given the job by his father, who owned the museum, so it wasn’t as if he would be fired if he didn’t meet the bottom line.

“It’ll be a lot of stress, crazy clients, dumb employees, inept management.” One side of Riklo’s mouth turned down. “Look, I’ll just give you family leave. If it doesn’t take longer than six months, your job will be here when you return.”

It made more sense than quitting. “Thanks, Riklo. I really appreciate that. I’ll hand my files over to Reya,” Nicholle said. She smiled at him, then left.

b

Reya wasn’t in her office and Nicholle didn’t feel like cogging, so she uploaded her instructions on the upcoming Yebedor exhibit and saved it to Reya’s node. Nicholle was sorry she would miss opening night. The exhibit was a social commentary piece illustrating the growing divide between the classes. She had studied Yebedor in college and admired his work. When she lived on the street, the meaning behind the paintings became clear. Funny that—a revelation through a pakz-induced high in which all the world’s issues were solved in a moment’s thought. And then with soberness came crushing reality.

The transition to corporate life would unsettle her, she knew. Remembrances of boring meetings, angry shareholders, and disgruntled employees flitted across her mind. She forced the thoughts from her head.

This time it will be different.

Riiight.

She was going to pack her things, but decided to leave them. She’d be back. Small though it was, her office held a lot of good memories—like the time Reya had bought Riklo a blow-up doll and was waving it around in the hallway while his father looked on, furious, from the conference room. Nicholle hadn’t known Mr. Castor could curse like that. But they’d all had a good laugh after he left. Then there was the time they landed the rights to the drawings in Chauvet Cave. They’d celebrated for days after.

“I shall return,” she said to herself. Grabbed her Quatrocellini bag and headed out. Her heels on marble echoed in the long, empty hallway. The Artists Hallway. Holos of painters, sculptors, and architects lined up on either side, watching as employees came and went.

Albrecht Dürer,
Self-Portrait at 28
, hung at the end of the corridor, one of Nicholle’s favorites. She paused for a last look.

It’s not the last time. Keep telling yourself that.

His eyes seemed sadder than usual—or was it her imagination?

“See you, Al. I still think you’re hot.”

She walked out into the night. Tall trees silhouetted against the moonlit sky hunched over the edge of the parking lot, as if hunting prey. Her car’s proximity sensors unlocked the door and turned on the engine. The door swung up as she approached.

“Good evening, Nicholle,” the car’s smooth baritone voice said.

“Evening, Max,” she replied.

“Will you be driving tonight?”

“Nope, it’s all yours. Been a rough day.”

“Destination?”

She hesitated. Guilt had nagged at the back of her mind since the drink in Malabo’s. She’d officially fallen off the wagon, but given the circumstances, she thought it understandable. Not that she was making excuses…

No, that’s exactly what you’re doing.

“Where’s the next, closest twelve-step meeting?” she said.

“1725 Rhode Island.”

“A.A.?”

“Yes.”

“Take me there.”

b

A host of cars huddled under the dome of St. Matthew’s Cathedral, testament to the number of those come to call. Nicholle had remembered her first twelve-step meeting—had expected to see nothing but barely recovering, recently high addicts who’d been forced into treatment by well-meaning relatives. Instead, she’d found people from all walks of life, in various stages of recovery. Some a few days sober, others decades. And they’d all welcomed her. It had felt like a familial embrace, one that she’d never had.

Max rolled to a stop and opened the door. Nicholle climbed out and pulled up her coat against the night chill. A few stragglers were wending their way around to a side entrance, and she hurried to fall in behind.

Technically, she was an addict, not an alcoholic, since her drug of choice was pakz. She drank, but not to the point of drunkenness. She’d relied on the pakz to take her over the edge. Way over.

“Hey,” she said to the two stragglers. “Is this open or closed?”

Closed meetings
were for A.A. members only, or for those who had a drinking problem and wanted to stop.
Open meetings
were available to anyone. She’d faked it before, just to get into a meeting she felt she needed. Replaced “pakz” with “alcohol.”

The man on the left, dressed in a thin leather jacket and tight jeans with a chain that ran from the back pocket to his belt, spoke first, albeit briefly.

“Closed.”

The woman on the right came across as more sociable. She wore a brown patchwork velvet skirt that fell to the floor and a green sweater. She had a tangle of brown curls with blonde highlights that framed a narrow face.

“First time?”

“First time here, not first at a meeting,” Nicholle said.

“Well, welcome. My name’s Daria. This here’s Jim.”

Jim said nothing, but opened the door to the church and waved them in. Nicholle let Daria take the lead, and they wound up in a small room of women. Jim had veered off, presumably to join a men’s group. Nicholle eased into a chair as she nodded greetings to the others. She tapped her thumb against her index finger three times, cogging out. The small group sat at desks formed in a rectangle. Nicholle figured the room was used for Bible study.

A chubby woman with short, copper-colored hair, sporting a tattoo of praying hands on her left forearm led the meeting. After reading the A.A. Preamble and leading the Serenity prayer, she opened the floor. Counterclockwise. Which meant Nicholle was third in line.

Nicholle listened to people’s personal tales of loss and recovery. When it was her turn, she crossed one leg over the other at the ankle and took hold at the juncture.

“Hi, I’m Nicholle.”

“Hi, Nicholle,” everyone said.

“I, ah…became an alcoholic a little over two years ago. My mother died when I was two and my father was rarely home, so it was mostly me and my older brother growing up.

“So, about two years ago I went to work for my father in the family business…only it didn’t work out. I didn’t quite fit in, since I was the ‘artiste’ in the family.” She paused. “I never quite fit in. Anyway, after I was, in effect, fired from an internship, I hit the party scene, drinking and pakzing my way through D.C. and Maryland. I hooked up with a leader of a skeemz gang and cribbed in, did what I could to earn my keep. But I was drinking more than I was making, so I stole money from him to keep myself boozed and pakzed up. I knew he’d find out eventually, and I called my brother for money.

“He said he would give it to me only if I came in for treatment that he could monitor. I was desperate, so I agreed. Only I haven’t seen the gang leader since. Which means I…haven’t lived up to Step 9 of the program, but something tells me…I may have the chance to reconcile that.”

Her gaze shuttled around the room until it landed on Daria. She had that Mother Earth aura and she looked at Nicholle with the same intensity she probably gave a mushroom burger.

Nicholle spoke on. “This afternoon, I found out my father fell ill, with only five days to live. So I went to a bar and had a drink. I have to admit, it felt good, relieved a bit of the stress. But it’s good that I felt guilty enough to come tonight, cuz a couple years ago, I would have thought nothing of it. Anyway, thanks for letting me share.”

The group thanked her for sharing.

b

After she made her farewells, she trotted across the parking lot and climbed into warm leather.

“Home.”

Nicholle sat, numb, behind the wheel as it crossed the 14
th
Street Bridge. The car continued on autopilot through the streets of Southwest D.C., snaking past tony shops and bars that spilled forth moneyed clientele. The bouquet of culinary creations of four-star restaurants wafted through the air vent, but it failed to stir her senses. Her gaze swept over the reflections of buildings undulating in the waters of the Potomac River.

Flashes of light illuminated the interior of the car driving under the street lamps. Flashes of memory illuminated her thoughts.

Nicholle tapped her index finger three times against her thumb. Prismatic colors spiraled around her, then whipped into a tight coil, bringing the scent of fresh flowers. The standard greeting sounded in her ears, “Welcome to Cognition.”

“Play Tekirna Maro,” Nicholle said. Tekirna’s voice flooded the car, and Nicholle’s senses filled with the smell of vanilla and the sights of purple and orange lights.

She checked her father’s status on the hospital node, but it only blinked “Status Unchanged” in bright blue. She sank down into the seat and closed her eyes, all the way home.

Arriving at the programmed destination, the car slid under the garage door, eased into a designated parking space, and shut off. Nicholle exited and headed for the nearby transport tube.

As she rode along the horizontal track to her condo, her incoming cog light flashed purple.
Call from Tyla Porreaux.
Nicholle tapped to answer the call, voice only, and Tyla’s chattering instantly filled Nicholle’s head.

“There you are. I swear, you need to stay spiraled in, you luddite. We still on for dinner?”

“Listen. I really need to talk to you. Can you and Keala come over now?”

“Sure thing, pachika.” Tyla’s voice mirrored instant concern. “You okay?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Oh, hon. Look, we’ll be right over. See you in five.”

Nicholle terminated the call just as the building’s retinal scan confirmed her identity and the doors to the tube opened. Nicholle stepped into her great room, heels clacking on the oak flooring. Strode past the baby grand piano and round the corner to her bedroom suite. She threw her purse on the chair to the right of the door. The walls were painted crimson, accented by an open-scroll ceiling medallion. The bed stood on a dais against the far wall, draped in gauzy mesh from a canopy. Beaded pillows spilled from the bed onto the floor.

Nicholle kicked off her navy Quatrocellini shoes, doffed her suit, and threw it at the feet of the laundrobot. Its single arm with two extensions bent to pick up the outfit for deposit into the ultrasonic cleaner.

She pulled on her favorite sweatsuit. The magfield chime rang and she hurried out to the living room as the butlyr stood aside to let the guests enter. Tyla and Keala whirled into the room, chattering, rustling bags, and clanking bottles. Tyla had narrow almond-shaped eyes and wavy amber tresses that complemented her café au lait complexion. Keala had a wide-eyed innocent look that made her seem younger than her twenty-six years.

“What’s wrong?” Tyla said. “You didn’t sound good at all when I cogged.”

“Hey, guys. Just put the stuff in the kitchen,” Nicholle said. “I don’t feel like cooking. Maybe we can order something.”

“No, no. As much as we paid for this steak, I’m cooking it. Consider me your chef for the night,” Keala said.

They gathered in the kitchen over ginger ale and cheese and crackers. Keala fired up the grill and seasoned down the steaks. The flames reflected off the red aluminum tiles, lending an intimate feel to the spacious room. Nicholle told them about her father, Wills leaving, and Chris’s request. As she told the story, it resonated as someone else’s, or as some cheap skeemz one could buy off the street for a pack of cigs.

“Oh, honey, are you okay?” Tyla said. She wrapped a hand around Nicholle’s arm in support.

“Just kinda numb right now, you know?” Nicholle stared into the pale gold of her ginger ale.

“I can’t imagine what it’s like. So your father might be—?” Keala said. She broke it off and looked down at the steaks before spearing one and laying it on the fire. It sizzled, sending up a tempting aroma.

Nicholle filled in the blank. “Euthanized.” It was hard for Nicholle to even say the word. “I didn’t know he believed in that. I can’t imagine him doing that.”

“But it might be the best thing. No suffering,” Keala said.

Nicholle downed her soda. “That’s just it. I don’t know if he is suffering. The doctors, apparently, don’t have a clue as to what happened.”

“I can’t believe Wills just took the money and left,” Tyla said. “Ass.”

“He wasn’t always that way,” Nicholle said defensively, to her surprise. Her first memory was of her brother pushing her on a swing in the backyard when she was two. He used to defend her from Anatol, the neighborhood bully, once even getting a bloody nose for his troubles. As they grew, to help with their grief over their mother, they had called each other every day from their respective boarding schools. He used to tell her stories about their mother, so she would not forget. When they were home, their father barely spoke to them. He would creep into their room when he got home from the office to kiss them goodnight, after they had gone to sleep. She knew this because he would sometimes leave a piece of candy or some jewelry on her nightstand. Only when she grew up did she realize her father was probably working through his own grief.