The Pedestal (32 page)

Though my flesh cries out for permission, I’m given no chance to panic because just then, a voice accosts me from the inky corridor, very nearly squeezing the pee from my bladder like a rolling pin against a jelly doughnut.

“What in deep space are you doing, Wilson?”

I stiffen with such a start that blurry spots glide into view.
Pardon me while I have a heart attack.

“I asked you a question,” the voice hisses. It’s Cutterly, I realize.

“Give me a second,” I gasp, doubling over to catch my breath. True, I’m stalling for time, but I’m also genuinely struggling to keep from fainting. “Holy pile of circuit scrap, you nearly scared me to death,” I confide in a wheezy slur. “I was just looking for something to read.”

“In Grogan’s room?” I can’t see much of Cutterly—just an ambiguous outline against the darkness—yet I can physically feel his presence nearby. I’m not sure why, but it comforts me as much as it frightens me. With that said, my heart is racing.

“Well, yeah,” I say, noting that apprehension has boosted my voice half an octave. “Where else am I gonna find a book?”

Cutterly is quiet; the darkness veils his expression, but I sense that he’s mulling over my explanation. And that he’s found a hole in it. “So what’d you get?”

“What do you mean?” I quip innocently.

“You said you were looking for a book in there; so what book did you get?”

“Oh, yeah—that. No luck. Grogan must’ve taken them along for him and Fiona to read.” That much is true, anyway; I didn’t see any books out in the open. Of course, now that I’m on the defensive, even the truth sounds shady.

Cutterly sighs, and though a sigh can’t always be translated into words, this one manages to say a lot. Have I mentioned that I’m a terrible liar? It’s been so long since I tried, I suppose I forgot until I opened my mouth to try. “Listen, Wil,” Cutterly whispers. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I get the feeling you’re playing with fire.”

“I’m not up to anything, Cutt.”

“C’mon, crank. It’s almost two in the morning—in my experience, only prostitutes and cat burglars are running around this late.”

I realize the opportunity is untimely, but I find it impossible to pass up this invitation to poke a jab—I mean, silver platter, and everything. “Got a lot of experience with prostitutes in the wee hours, do you?” An amused snort escapes me, but that’s about it. Would’ve been more satisfying with a better audience, I guess.

Cutterly doesn’t laugh—shocking, I know. His breathing deepens, though, a powerful, cavernous sound when juxtaposed against my own choppy respiration. For a long moment, neither of us speaks and I begin to wonder if he’s fallen asleep.

“He’ll know you were in there,” he finally says. “You realize that, don’t you?”

My skin prickles. I had nearly convinced myself that I was being paranoid. The back of my tongue turns into cotton, and the compulsion to run becomes almost unbearable. But where would I go?

Afraid my voice will betray me, I don’t reply; instead, I nod my acknowledgement, realizing too late that he can’t see me.

Cutterly chuckles—maybe he can see me after all; that, or he’s simply interpreted the truth from my silence. “When I said to watch out for Grogan, I didn’t mean to do it from his room.”

This bit of dry witticism strikes me as mildly funny—and that’s being generous—yet before I even realize what’s happening, a raging flood of nervous laughter explodes from me, resounding through the hallway in a single, crashing tidal wave. I can’t help it; since this afternoon, the tension has slowly built up in me until it simply had to break free. Better laughter than tears, I suppose—or worse: vomiting, or even explosive diarrhea. Anyway, drunk or not, Rogers couldn’t sleep through that.

When my fit has subsided, Cutterly clears his throat uncomfortably; fumbling in the darkness, he lays a calloused hand on my shoulder. “Go to bed, Wilson,” he says. “Too late to do anything else.” Inexplicably, the man’s voice is more gentle and fatherly than any I’ve heard in a long time. Unexpectedly, tears gather in my eyes, mercifully cloaked in deep shadow.

For no reason, I’m reminded of the one fight I ever picked in my entire life. I was twelve. In the throes of some preadolescent identity crisis, I guess I thought I’d give bullying a try. Uncle Stewart came to my rescue just as our inhumanly scrappy, eleven-year-old next-door neighbor was cocking back an oversized golf club to literally bash my head in.

I vaguely remember Stew carrying me home, then, cradling me in his arms like a baby. I was beaten to a bloody pulp; Uncle Stew cleaned me up and then spanked me with his belt until I swore to never provoke violence again. I’m not sure which of us cried harder that day.

A year later, incidentally, that same kid lit a neighborhood dog on fire before disappearing into some psychiatric care facility—I’m pretty sure his helix was missing a few hundred spokes. Even now, I shudder to think what that freak would have done to me, if not for Stewart.

Jeez, I’m a wreck tonight.

I hear Cutterly shuffle toward his room, and as I follow through the darkness, exhaustion abruptly hits me like a brick wall—and I mean with a vengeance. My NanoPrint’ll have to wait until tomorrow.

I’ll be lucky if I make it to bed before I crash.

It’s after four. I don’t even remember my head hitting the pillow earlier, only awakening later in a confused panic—and since then, I’m not sure that I’ve actually slept for more than a few minutes at a time. Despite the dope of fatigue, my consciousness porpoises in and out of slumber, broken up by short spells of lights-on disorientation. I can feel my brain cranking away at the gears even as I try to shut the machine down.

I suspect I won’t get another wink of sleep until I get a look at that file—and frankly, trying to rest is wearing me out even more than staying awake—so I sit up in bed. I’ve had a minor epiphany, by the way: I don’t need Grogan’s room—there’s nothing special about it, except that it’s much more spacious than mine—what I need are those loose NanoPrints.

Wearing only my boxers, I once again traverse the darkened hall to Grogan’s room. As before, my NanoPrint hums to life, which reaffirms that I’m not endangering myself for no good reason, and thereby emboldens me. Leaving the door wide open and the light off, I creep to the dresser and slide the sock drawer open.

Snatching the plastic container within, I shut the drawer and return to the hall. Seconds later, I’m back in my room, simultaneously elated and achingly tired. Just as I hoped, my implant remains active. Grinning at my success, I deposit my plunder on a nearby desk and settle back into the warmth of my bed.

It takes some effort to interact with my implant—it’s fighting like crazy to run routines that require a connection to the nexus, and as a result, very little RAM is available for my discretionary use. Still, a little perseverance eventually pays off.

I can’t help but laugh at my last MentalNote, logged forever ago. “Whatever you do,” it warns, “don’t eat the sushi at Jin-Jing’s. Ever again.”

Fuzzy with sleepiness, or perhaps the hypnotic allure of nostalgia, I scroll past my remaining notes and browse my implant’s file directory, where the file in question is likely hidden among thousands of audio, video, and document shortcuts. I sort them by modified date, sending the newer files to the top. First in line is a file whose date stamp completely baffles me.

My God, have I really been here that long?

I don’t recognize the file extension, but thankfully, my NanoPrint does; almost instantly, my internal audio/video routines mount the file and begin transcoding. Closing my eyes, I hiccup with surprise—Arthur’s face appears on my retinas, his voice in my ears as though he’s sitting beside me. For a moment, I’m confused—outside of text mode, MentalNotes records the comprehensive experiences of one’s sensory organs, so I expect to see what Arthur saw when he made this note, rather than the man himself—but then I understand.

Art’s looking in a mirror.

“If you’re watching this, Wilson, things have probably gone badly for me. I’ve put a program on my NanoPrint—yes, I may be a dinosaur, but I can still throw a program together with proper motivation.” He smiles, knowing I’d poke fun at this paltry attempt at humor if I was there. My eyes are welling with tears, but through the magic of my NanoPrint, the video feed maintains crystal clarity.

“Anyway, should anything happen to me, my implant is programmed to automatically seek out yours and launch a file transfer; I can’t risk it within the nexus because it isn’t safe, so the only way it’s gonna work is if you get near enough for a handshake. I installed an old http server on it, so it should stream the files without interference from the nexus. The files should self-decrypt on your implant.”

File
s
? Huh, I only saw one. Consulting my NanoPrint’s file directory, I discover that there are, in fact, hundreds more files with today’s time stamp; I guess I grabbed the first one that caught my interest and never looked back.

Arthur pauses and takes a deep breath, peeking over his shoulder to make sure he’s still alone. The diluted odors of urine and tile cleaner fill my nose, and I see stalls behind him. Is he in a public restroom?

“Gotta apologize for the venue; privacy is a rarified commodity in this building. Anyway, whew! Kind of a bleak, longwinded preamble, huh?”

He peeks over his shoulder again and back again. This is a nervous Arthur I’ve never seen before.

“So here’s what’s happening: IDS has a regular soup kitchen going; more than a decade ago, the same people we rely on to protect the nexus got their claws in us, and they’ve been squeezing us for ransom ever since. And unfortunately, it gets worse. Lately, I’ve had some very heavy people leaning on me—you remember Premiere Global, right? Bunch of sweethearts, let me tell you. Anyway, they want me to slip something past nexus security, and the word
no
doesn’t appear in their vocabulary.”

Arthur’s cheeks burn red, as do mine; he’s given in to their demands already, I know, and I can see that he’s ashamed. Lord, this man gave up his most prized possession to protect me—his integrity; it stings to see how deeply that sacrifice pierced him in life, because even on my best day, I’ll never deserve it. I feel a sob collecting in the back of my throat, curling into a little ball that refuses to be swallowed.

“I don’t have time to explain anything in detail,” he apologizes, “but what I can tell you is that things heated up about a week ago. One of these lovely parasites—our good and faithful vice president, if you can believe it—just up and doubled her monthly demand. Out of nowhere, I mean—I guess campaign season is upon us again. Next thing I know, others have found out and decided to follow her lead.

“So, now we’re stuck, Wil; IDS can’t maintain those kinds of payouts and still turn a profit, but without the blessing of these bloodsuckers, we’re dead in the water. Once Premiere figures this out, I have a feeling they’re gonna try to take me out; I figure I’m more of a liability than an asset to them, now.”

Arthur sighs, stress glistening on his forehead like drops of morning dew. “There’s something else, too: I’ve been doing some research—the kind that might well get me into trouble, I’m afraid—and I stumbled across something huge. I found a link between Vice President Carlisle and an exceptionally unsavory character.” Arthur swallows and blurts a jittery guffaw. “Crank, I never saw this one coming: her stepbrother? His name is
Palmer Gunn
—I’m guessing you already know who he is, so I won’t belabor his significance. Naturally, Carlisle has gone to extraordinary lengths to cover this up. Imagine what that kind of information could do to her if it was made public! Anyway, the evidence is still out there in the nexus—for those of us who know how to be thorough, I mean. It’s all in the files, Wil.

“So, one of two things needs to happen, now: either we fold up tent, or we do the one thing that might still save this company: we have to—
I
have to—blow the whistle.”

He tosses his head back and looks at the ceiling for a moment and says, “Crank, I can’t believe I’m doing this.” Running tremulous fingers through a shag of silver hair, Art smiles sagely. It’s a sad, defeated smile that unleashes the sob within me in a sharp gust.
How I miss that man!

“Okay, so tomorrow morning, I’m going to release a set of data packets on the nexus. They’ll be anonymous, but that won’t fool anyone for long. If all goes as planned, they’ll flood the media torrents before anyone can interfere—and everyone in the Unified World will know exactly what these people have been up to. I wish I could be sure that IDS will survive this—even if every detail falls into place flawlessly, there’s no guarantee we won’t go under while the government tries to piece the evidence together. But I’ve gotta do something, you know?”

Clearing his throat, Arthur grimaces slightly. He grunts as if recovering from a kick to the diodes, then looks down. His left hand—no, I guess it’s actually his right—seeks out his other arm and begins kneading at its bicep, perhaps rubbing out a sore spot.