Rift (4 page)

“I think I can handle this test on my own.”

“I know that,” she barks. “But I forgot to tell you to save some.”

“I'm sorry?”

“For the test afterwards,” she explains. “Since your body will interpret the transmission as instantaneous, there won't be any urine left if you completely empty your bladder now.”

A genuine smile spreads across my face—the first of its kind since I entered this building—and I nod to Judy.

“So I should save some.”

“Yes.”

“No problem.”

But my humor dissipates quickly. An unfamiliar man looks back at me from the bathroom mirror, a man whose face shimmers with fear. Certainly they must all see it. Surely they must know that my heart now beats in my throat, must know the bitter taste of adrenaline in my mouth. Their machine, after all, is going to disrupt my body at the quantum level and then use the effects of something known as EPR correlation to reassemble me twelve hundred miles away—by far the most complex task modern technology has ever reputed to solve. Shouldn't they have brought me in hours before my transmission instead of just a few minutes? What about blood work, MRIs, or other similarly detailed examinations? Is this really it?

My hands shake as I drain warmth into the specimen cup, and twice my aim squirts off the mark. I finish and then wash my hands thoroughly. Splash a little water onto my face. If Misty detects how truly frightened I am, she'll drag me out of the transmission station by my hair.

Batista waits eagerly for me as I stride back into the examination room.

“Are you ready, Cameron?”

“I think so.”

“Then let us proceed.” He steps out into the hall and motions for me to follow him. I look back for my clothes and find them in Misty's hands.

“No need to redress,” Batista says. “Nothing can accompany you into the transmission portal.”

I already knew this, of course—that I would be transmitting nude—but I didn't realize they were going to parade me around the office in this ridiculous gown.

Batista turns right and heads for the end of the hall, where the door marked
TERMINAL
waits. Like a black hole it waits, an unknown entity, a singularity where perception is stretched like taffy and sucked into an alternate universe. I can avoid that hole simply by turning away. Its gravitational pull can entrap me only if I get too close.

“Welcome to the Houston transmission terminal,” Batista announces.

He gestures into the room with a wide, sweeping arc of his hand and steps through the doorway. I turn to Misty—looking for what, I don't know—and then follow Batista into the terminal.

I suppose I was expecting something out of the future: a room full of bright, polished metal decorated by countless flashing lights and computer screens, technicians in full body jumpsuits running to and fro, shouting coordinates and download times and all kinds of other jargon. Of course, the terminal is nothing of the kind. It is a small and comfortable place that closely resembles our offices on the floor above. Several chairs have been placed on this side of the room, and against the far wall stands a row of three tall oak desks, semicircular in shape. Behind each is a set of two doors, labeled
PASSENGERS
and
LUGGAGE
, respective. At present only one of the desks is manned—by a thin, middle-aged woman I've never seen here at NeuroStor. She smiles as Batista ushers me toward her.

“Cheryl,” he says, “this is Mr. Cameron Fisher.”

“Pleased to meet you,” she beams. “Thank you so much for coming.”

I look like an idiot in this hospital gown. I might as well be wearing pajamas.

“We have fashioned this room to resemble what we think the first transmission terminals will look like,” Batista explains. “Of course, when the technology is in wide use, there will be more portals in a single terminal, so this should be considered a scaled-down version of the real thing.”

I stand there looking at him as if this tidbit of information actually matters to me.

“Your transmission will begin whenever you are ready,” Batista says, and somehow hearing it spoken aloud weakens me further. My knees feel as if they might fail me. “The scan will last approximately ten minutes, transmission between fifteen and twenty. You should arrive at the Phoenix station by four o'clock Mountain Time, where reassimilation will cover another fifteen minutes or so. So we're looking at about forty-five minutes total transmission time.”

“Just like you explained to me about three times already,” I add.

“Right. We're sure that one of the initial misconceptions about transmission will be that it's instantaneous. After all, it's in our nature as human beings to be drawn to the sensational, confrontational, and romantic.
Star Trek
, I'm sure people will say, because a five-second ‘Beam me up, Scotty,' is certainly more fantastic than the forty-five-minute process it actually is.”

I'm astonished that he thinks I might have forgotten any of the details he has been hammering into me over the past few weeks.

“Do you have any questions before we get started?” he asks me.

I look around the room, wondering rhetorically just how I came to be in this situation, how I went from being a middle-class pencil pusher to a near-millionaire about to risk his life in the name of corporate science. And just as I am ready to tell him to get on with the test, I spot something on the ceiling that gives me pause.

“What's that camera doing up there?” I ask him. “Who's watching us?”

Batista's nearly imperceptible pause is enough to tell me he's about to lie.

“No one,” he answers. “It's been standard procedure to record each transmission test.”

This makes perfect sense, of course, but somehow I get the idea that others with vested interest in this test are watching remotely. The board of directors at our home office in Plano, for instance? Or maybe investors? But why wouldn't they want to observe their precious invention in person?

“You sure? If anyone else wants to watch, why don't they just come in here and—”

“Cameron,” Batista growls, “may I remind you that we are rewarding you handsomely for this test in part because of your sworn secrecy? I don't think ridiculous questions about possible outside observers solidifies with me your ability to keep your mouth shut.”

In seconds, Batista has reminded me of my place in this situation, of how I am no more than a pawn (albeit a soon-to-be-rich one) in his worldly chess game.

“Fine,” I tell him. “I'm ready whenever you are.”

“Very well, then,” he says, and nods to Gates. The security director walks to the door marked
LUGGAGE
and opens it. From here I don't really notice anything remarkable about the space inside. Looks sort of like a shiny, metal closet.

“We'll send luggage and anything else inanimate through first,” Cheryl says to me. “If that's okay with you.”

I nod obediently. As if it would make a difference if I disagreed.

“Once inside the portal, you'll have a few moments to remove the gown, undergarments, and any jewelry. There is a small trapdoor marked
CLOTHING
, and you'll want to place these items inside it. They will be transmitted along with your luggage.”

“Okay.”

Silence creeps into the room now as I wait for more instructions. Beside me, Misty stands perfectly still, although inside she must be screaming. Like I am screaming. This is crazy.

“Is there anything else, Cameron?” asks Batista. “Or are you—”

“I'd like a moment alone with my wife, if that's okay.”

He clasps his hands together again. “Of course! Of course. Cheryl? Stephen?”

The three of them smile politely and leave the terminal. Misty's hand is on my arm even before they are gone.

“Cameron, I don't like this.”

“I know you don't. I'm a little nervous myself.”

“No, I don't like
this.
This whole operation. Something isn't right.”

“What? What's not right about it?”

“For one thing, where the hell
is
everyone? You'd think they'd have the board of directors or investors or someone else important here to see you off. It's not like they've got a hundred volunteers lined up outside the door.”

“I'm sure that's what the video camera is for,” I tell her. “You saw how sensitive he was when I asked him about it.”

“Still, I don't like this one bit. I know you think you don't have any choice, but will you
please
reconsider, for God's sake? I think your life is in
serious
danger.”

“Misty—”

“Look at the examinations they performed on you! Do you think they were thorough enough? Of course they weren't! For what you're about to do, they might as well have just asked you to open up and say ‘ahhhh.' Can't you imagine how many different ways this could go wrong?”

“I know something could go wrong! You think I don't know that?”

“Then why—”

“Misty, I'm sick of this. I'm so tired of going over the same damn thing over and over again.”

“We go over it so much because you never answer my question! What if something
does
go wrong? You're so worried about yourself, so mixed up in this midlife crisis of yours, that you've forgotten about me. What will
I
do if you don't make it back?”

“It's going to be fine, Misty. We both know that. Tom will be there to pick me up, and we'll be laughing about this an hour from now.”

She begins to cry, very softly, and I wrap my arms around her. The smell of her hair is sweet, like strawberry. I regret her fear, her pain, knowing as she does that something could go wrong, just as it went wrong with our only son. Why am I putting her through this? Is deliverance from the daily grind of life really worth the misery inflicted upon my wife?

“Honey,” she says, “I know you haven't been happy. I know you think the money will make it all better. But don't you know that we can work through this? Can't you see how much more sense it makes to try therapy again than this foolhardy chance you're taking?”

Could it be that she's right? Should I at least take a little more time to think before I rush into something that owns the potential to end my life?

I let go of her, about to acknowledge her concerns, and that's when the NeuroStor officials burst back into the terminal. I don't know whether to attribute this to coincidence or the video surveillance. Batista doesn't really give me much time to think about it.

“Are you ready, Cameron?”

“Actually, I'd like to speak to you for a moment, as well.”

“Certainly. What is it?”

“I mean I'd like to speak to you privately.”

It's obvious from the furrowed brow and narrow eyes that Batista isn't pleased with this deviation from his plan. I wonder for a moment if he might just pick me up and toss me into the transmission portal, but then his features relax and he brings out that winning, artificial smile.

“Of course, Cameron. Will your wife be joining us?”

I turn to Misty. “Let me have a word with him, okay? I'll just be a minute.”

She nods. I can see in her eyes that she thinks I've changed my mind, and perhaps I have.

Batista leads me out of the terminal and finds a nearby office that isn't locked. He sits down behind a desk and invites me to take the visitor's chair.

“What's on your mind, Cameron?”

“I'm having second thoughts.”

“Jesus, did you have to wait until the last minute to tell me?”

“Did you think I was going to just show up here and jump into the portal? I don't know what the hell that thing is going to do to me.”

“So you're scared, is that what you're saying?”

“You're goddamn right I'm scared. Wouldn't you be?”

Batista considers this. “Sure, I would be scared. But I'm not in your situation, so I don't have to worry about it.”

“What situation is that? You're not talking about my job are you?”

“No.”

“Because I can find another job. I'm not doing this because I'm afraid of unemployment.”

“Then why
are
you doing this?”

“You never said what situation I'm in. Answer my question.”

“The situation you're in, Cameron, is that you don't know what to do with your life. You're a smart man. You don't have the luxury of coasting through life on ignorance like a lot of people. You're acutely aware of your potential, that you have something meaningful to offer society, but you can't really figure out what that ‘something' is.”

I was expecting some kind of financial or career-related discussion. I had no idea Batista was going to try his hand at psychology.

“You'll just waste away, Cameron. If you don't figure out a way to play the corporate game or get off your ass and open your own firm, if you don't figure out some way to be happy in your work, you'll end up killing yourself. With a heart attack or with a razor blade, it doesn't matter. And if you don't want that, if you don't want to kill yourself, the question you have to ask yourself is this: What
is
going to make me happy?”

Batista smiles as if he has impressed me with his monstrous intellect, but this apparent insight is nothing more than any intelligent human could surmise about the world around him. Most men age quickly, after all, their career and salary arcs flattening around the age of thirty-five, the balance of their days forming a plateau that for better or worse defines their usefulness to society, and any armchair sociologist can recognize this. Anyone with reasonable observation skills can employ the celebrated bell curve to illustrate how the haves and have-nots occupy America's nether regions and leave the vast, flat plain of homogeny for the middle-class majority. This is not what I want from him now.