Spark: A Novel (14 page)

“Should I keep looking for Emily Buchanan?”

“No. Mr. Rajat Pradhani, the head of the company, would like to talk to you as soon as possible. You can give him the flash drive. Because of government monitoring, he doesn’t want the data sent through the Internet.”

“Is he here in New York?”

“Of course not. He lives in India. Right now we’re taking you to the consulate so you can get a travel visa. When that’s done, return to your apartment and pack your bags.” She handed me an envelope. “This is a round-trip ticket on a British Airways flight to New Delhi. You’re leaving from Kennedy Airport at eight o’clock this evening.”

“I’m going to India?”

“That’s right. So give me your two handguns. We don’t want your landlord snooping around and finding unregistered weapons when you’re away.”

I gave her both weapons and she dropped them into a purple shopping bag.

“Do I really have to meet Mr. Pradhani? I’d rather stay here in New York.”

Miss Holquist sat back against the black leather seat. Her nostrils flared slightly and her voice was sharp and precise. “And why is that?”

Trying to find Emily Buchanan, I had touched her clothes and smelled her pillow. I felt connected to my target, but I didn’t know how to explain that to Miss Holquist.

“I’m tired.”

“I understand, Mr. Underwood. If I had a choice, I’d rather be talking to my daughter’s dressmaker and tasting sample squares of wedding cake. Instead, I’ve stepped into a very messy room and now I have to clean it up.”

“Send another enforcer.”

“Mr. Pradhani wants to speak to you. He doesn’t want anyone else to know about this problem. You’re flying first class, Underwood. You can sleep on the plane.”

Twelve hours later I found myself sitting in a waiting lounge at Kennedy Airport. The television sound had been turned off, but I could read the captions at the bottom of the screen. There were more sex riots in China because of the lack of women. In Russia, the new czar appeared at his son’s wedding. Meanwhile the U.S. Congress was debating the Faith of Our Fathers Act, which would place restrictions on any religion that didn’t use the Bible as a primary text.

Toward the end of the news hour, a talking head announced how many Americans would get married in the fourth quarter of the year. This was not a prediction based on previous trends, but a fairly accurate statement based on the EYE system. Both the government and large corporations were monitoring e-mail and credit card transactions. Surveillance cameras were everywhere, plus people were walking around New York making continuous videos with their G-MIDs because they wanted to remember every moment of their unmemorable lives. A great many facts flowed into the total information database, but the real power of EYE came from the algorithms that identified individuals, tracked them, and placed them into different categories. Yes, there was fate and luck and the faithful still believed in angels and divine intervention. But the
equations proved that most humans—most of the time—are as predictable as machines.

The growlers and the New Luddites hated the idea that their decisions could be compared to the programmed responses of a coffeemaker. Some of them wore random-number generators on a cord around their necks and used the numbers to make unusual decisions. There were still a few outliers, but the erratic behavior of these individuals was absorbed and neutralized by the predictable actions of the majority population. The algorithms could predict approximately how many jars of apricot jam would be sold in Warsaw or how many people would commit suicide in Munich.

But the truly significant information was rarely made public. Did most citizens hate their leaders or would they hate them in the future? Would the growlers continue with their bash mobs and computer hacking or would there be an organized rebellion?

In the United States, the Need to Know Act stated that an ordinary citizen did not need to know much of anything. This law was just one of several major bills passed by Congress in the months following the Day of Rage:

None of these laws influenced the energy of my Spark or the movement of my Shell. Freedom can only be taken away from the living. A dead dog is never attached to a chain.

On the flight to New Delhi, I was curled up inside the white plastic shell that served as a first-class sleeping compartment. When they
dimmed the cabin lights, I closed my eyes and tried to control my breathing. In New York, my Spark could remain within the present reality, observing and reacting to objects around me. I did occasionally have memories, but they were focused on tasks and objectives:

But when I’m trapped on a plane for fourteen hours, memory grows like a tumor.

Gradually, images of the past push away the present reality.

There is only one way to avoid this shadow land of memories; I force myself to enter the clean, orderly file room of facts. Over the years I have obtained all the police and hospital reports written
about my death. As I read these official summaries, I became an object observed from a distance.

As the plane began to cross the Atlantic, I switched on my computer and slipped on the headset. “Edward, please show me the police report.…”

“Which one, sir?”

“The document issued by the Delaware County Sheriff’s Department.”

According to Deputy Sheriff Kirk Everett, I was riding a Ducati motorcycle on the section of Route 30 that runs past Pepacton Reservoir in Delaware County, New York. I was accompanied by Gerald Tannenbaum and Brian Farrell—two New York City residents without criminal records.

I am not capable of fantasy—that is, happy or sad thoughts about various unrealities. But I can picture in my mind that October afternoon on a two-lane country road. First silence, then a growing sound of engines approaching until, suddenly, we appeared. Red and gold leaves are scattered across the pavement and our rapid movement makes them swirl up in the air.

Did I lie forward over the bike’s fuel tank, feeling the vibration of the machine?

Was there a race down the hill? Was Tannenbaum in front, then Farrell, until I sped past them? Did I turn my head? Did I wave? Or were both my hands gripping the handlebars as I leaned into the curve and hit a stalled delivery truck?

The truck was owned by Gourmet Guy, a Delaware County company that supplies food to schools and restaurants. Its driver, a man named Bernard Alvarez (fifty-six years old, no criminal record), had just lifted up the hood and was staring at the engine.

Downloaded photographs of the accident site show my motorcycle resting on its side with its front wheel and handlebars crumpled into a twisted sculpture. In one shot, a heavyset man wearing a parka (Alvarez?) is talking on his mobile phone. Approximately fifteen minutes after the first emergency call, Deputy Everett appeared in his patrol car and found my body lying on the pavement thirty feet away from the motorcycle. Tannenbaum and Farrell told the deputy that they had “removed the victim’s helmet and attempted CPR.” They stopped CPR when “they decided that the victim was dead.”

The attached statements of the witnesses don’t mention my death. Mr. Alvarez talks for pages about the truck and its broken timing belt. Tannenbaum and Farrell explained that our plan was to circle the reservoir and then spend the night at a hotel in Downsville. Tannenbaum stated that this was a “guys’ weekend” because Farrell had just announced his engagement.

I told Edward to search for Deputy Everett’s photograph on the Internet, but he wasn’t successful. Let’s assume that Everett was a muscular man in his forties, his policeman’s belt heavy with a gun and a Taser and a flashlight as he approached the accident victim. The dead man’s face—my face—was covered with blood and I didn’t appear to be breathing. But then, according to the report, a “pink bubble” appeared on my lips. Was this bubble formed by one final convulsive effort from my lungs? Or was my Spark trying to escape its prison? Deputy Everett didn’t have to debate the matter
with the three witnesses, because an ambulance arrived a few minutes later.