The Pedestal (45 page)

I’m driven to an unfamiliar part of downtown and into a parking garage. From there, I’m hustled through darkened hallways and stairwells without explanation. On a seemingly empty floor, my captors finally come to a halt. They deposit me in a small room that could easily be mistaken for a storage room but for the keyless entry scanner on the door and a large, worn table within. I’m left for an hour or more without a word, though I hear the occasional muffled voice outside the door.

I’m lost in thought when the door finally swings open. The man who enters is a stranger to me, yet I recognize his kind of boldness and charisma, having seen it similarly at work in Palmer Gunn.

“Mr. Abby,” he says blandly. “I appreciate your time this morning.”

Though he’s done nothing yet to cause me alarm, I sense that this is a man I should be hesitant to upset. But I’m compelled to test the waters.

“No need for thanks; I wasn’t given much of a choice.”

No smile, no frown.

“I’m Special Agent Eugene Dryers of the Chicago field office of the Federal Bureau of Investigations. In a moment, we’ll be joined by Dr. Roger Tisdale of the CDC. He’s come a fair distance to speak with you, on the recommendation of a local inspector. I would appreciate your full cooperation.”

“I’m not sure what help I can be, but I’ll give it a shot.”

Dryers nods curtly and promptly departs. Five minutes pass, and then he returns with a companion and a few folding chairs.

“Dr. Tisdale, Mr. Abby.” I unconsciously rise at the introduction. A moment later, we’re all seated with the scarred table between us.

And the interrogation begins.

I withhold little, though I make every effort to veil the status of my NanoPrint. When it’s all over, Dr. Tisdale is escorted from the room. Dryers remains behind, deadpan eyes locked on mine like magnets. I have nothing to hide—not really, anyway—yet the silence in here is disarming, and the urge to fill it with something is all but overwhelming. But I’m not a complete idiot. I hold my tongue.

A full five minutes of wordless silence passes, at the end of which Dryers rises from his seat and leaves me alone, yet again. I smile inwardly that I’ve withstood round one. A half hour later, when my stomach is beginning to rumble, Dryers returns with a soft drink and a sandwich and hovers in the farthest corner of the room as I eat. The moment I’ve finished, the door opens and we’re joined by a new face.

I very nearly fall from my chair as she steps inside, appraising me with the unimpressed disinterest of a complete stranger.

“Wilson,” she says with an empty smile.

“Well, if it isn’t the brilliant Fiona.”

“I prefer Dr. Grogan, thank you.”

No point asking if her snooty title gets her special treatment in prison; obviously, she’s managed to dodge that bullet. “So who’d she roll over to save herself?” I ask Dryers.

“Dr. Grogan is here to discuss matters regarding the blood plants. No questions outside that scope—personal or professional—will be answered.”

“Naturally,” I say with a wry smirk.

Fiona sits across from me and clasps her hands in her lap. It’s funny: despite our history—the countless hours cramped in close quarters together—I feel that I’m seeing her for the very first time. She looks almost exactly the same—all the features align with what I remember—but somehow, her beauty has worn away.

“Since you returned to Earth, have you been contacted at any time by Kurt Grogan?”

“No.”

“Have you seen or heard anything that might indicate his whereabouts?”

“Fiona, are you a doctor or a detective? These questions have nothing to do with the blood plants.”

“Just answer the question, Mr. Abby,” commands Dryers.

“Fine. No. I haven’t seen Grogan since he apparently fled for his life.” Glaring at Fiona, I add, “What happened, did he turn out to be a
liability
after all? You did this, Fiona—all of it.”

Dryers levels a gaze on me that could peel paint off metal, but Fiona’s jaws clench, and I know I’ve scored a point. “That’s enough, Mr. Abby. Just answer the questions asked, and that’s all.”

Fiona clears her throat and purges her face of all emotion again. “Have you personally witnessed the effects caused by the ingestion of a blood plant seed?”

“Yes,” I cede with a frown. Until now, I haven’t considered what I could possibly contribute on the subject of the blood plants—particularly with Fiona in the picture, considering she’s the foremost expert. Then the questions become more open-ended, and I’m gradually filled with horror by their implications.

“Please describe your observations.”

“Well, first the guy seemed to be hallucinating—pleasantly so, actually.” I level my gaze on Fiona. “But you already know all about that, don’t you, Dr. Grogan?”

“Mr. Abby, please.”

“Fine. When the high passed, he had a stomachache. Diarrhea. Probably some cramps, too, though I can’t know for sure. He did a lot of grunting in the bathroom.”

“What else?”

“That’s about it. Except for the obvious: a plant grew out of his mouth and his rectum.”

The room is silent, and I know they’re visualizing what I’ve spent many hours trying to forget.

“What kind of plant?” Fiona asks softly.

“What are we talking about here, guys? A blood plant.”

“Please describe the blood plant.”

“What is this, Fiona? You know what the blood plants look like! You created them, for crying out loud.”

“Please, Wilson. Just answer the question,” Fiona says. “What did it look like?” Her eyes are hard, but I see something uncharacteristically vulnerable—perhaps even desperate—hiding in the creases at their corners.

Something clicks, and I finally understand.

“It was red, Fiona,” I say in a measured whisper. “A female. Do you realize what you’ve done?”

She rises to leave, cheeks dappled with chagrin, and Dryers follows her lead. Just as they reach the door, Fiona turns to me and says, “One more question, Wilson. Did you have any seeds on your person when you returned to this planet?”

“You mean when I was kidnapped, dragged here, and then beaten nearly to death a few feet away from you? No, I didn’t have any seeds.”

When they leave, I feel a sense of satisfaction for having gotten in the last word. But as I’m escorted from the room, down a long hallway, and into a small infirmary filled with medical instruments and a foreboding gurney-style table, I realize I’ve still managed to come up short.

I may have gotten the last word, but the government always gets the last laugh.

On the way home, I nearly vomit from overstimulus. Under the skin of my wrist, my NanoPrint hums away, prickling at my heightened senses with overwhelming determination. My government escorts more than half-carry me into my condo, and if not for them I’d have surely collapsed on the sidewalk. Once home, they shoulder me roughly onto my couch and then leave me to suffer, slamming my door on their way out.

It takes several minutes of painful, concentrated effort to discern what’s wrong. My NanoPrint has been reset to the factory default so that all processes—of which there are thousands—are allowed to pester me at once. Slowly but surely, one at a time, I disable feeds and unfamiliar add-ons until I can finally begin to think straight. At some point, my brain gives up and puts me out for a while.

When I regain consciousness, I give Tim a call. Before I even open my mouth to speak, he says, “Oh, no.” I must really look terrible. “I’ll be right over.”

Waiting in dull misery, I enable my nexus assistant, thinking maybe Marilyn can help get my settings back in order. But it isn’t the lovely Marilyn who heeds my beck and call. It’s Astrid Electronica, my NanoPrint’s default nexus assistant.

Oh, no.

Astrid is kind of hot—in a weird, over-pierced, Hollywood kind of way—and you would think she has to be pretty cool to get the default slot, right?

Yeah, not so much. I gave her a shot years ago, and I’m not sure that I’ll ever really recover. For example: once, she asked how I was doing—which seemed nice enough on the surface—so I replied that everything was white as rain. This was her idea of gentle, constructive criticism:

>>What, you got a broken helix or something? It’s
right
as rain! No wonder you’re single, crank dummy.

Not only is she a mean-hearted bully, I’m still more than half-convinced she’s glitched. I mean, what’s right about rain? It’s not a right or left kind of thing. But it
can
be white. Right?

Sigh
. What can you do?

Taking a deep breath, I rip off the proverbial band-aid:
Astrid, oh queen of the digital world, will you please configure my implant defaults?

>>Oh, sure, Wilson.
She slides into view and beams me a winning smile.

I blink.
Wow
. Did old Astrid get updated, or maybe replaced with—

The smile abruptly winks out, and she begins to bow sarcastically.

>>Your wish is my command, oh wise master. What, like I’m some kind of freaking genie? Like it’s my job to do your stupid busywork? You’re such a lazy misfire.

Ah, it’s like she never left. Good times.
Fine, Astrid. I think I’ll just disable you, then.

>>Yeah, right. You wouldn’t know how, Mr. White-as-rain. You’re too stupid to—

_
open NanoPrint admin

_
config nexus attributes

_
modify globals

... Modifying nexus globals is highly discouraged. Erroneous configuration may result in unpleasantness such as poor connectivity or physical death. Are you sure you want to proceed?

_
confirm;

>>Whoa, there, boy toy—wait a second, would you? Let’s just settle down.

_
open global preferences

_
disable NanoPrint digital assistant

>>Did I mention you’re a crank loser?
Astrid growls.

“You did,” I say aloud.

_
apply settings

... Configuration saved.

_
exit

Astrid sticks out her tongue, flips me the bird with both hands, and storms off my retinas in a barrage of profanity.

Classy, I know. Seriously, does NanoPrint hate consumers or something? Please tell me I don’t live in a world where people actually enjoy being treated like that.

I spend the next half hour configuring defaults on my implant, starting with my nexus assistant. There are a ton of new add-ons, but I ignore them for now; Marilyn can take care of those later. For now, my brain needs a hammock and a cool breeze. I lie back on my couch and close my eyes.

>>Oh my goodness, Wilson ... you look so tense. Would you like me to sing you to sleep?

Marilyn, as if you even have to ask.
Oh, how I’ve missed you.

Alas, just as I begin to nod off, Tim is at my door. Immediately, I start to recount my experience with Fiona—because what could be more newsworthy than that?—but he cuts me off and turns on the actual news. “Wait, wait. You gotta see this, Wilson.”

It’s on virtually every channel, filling my entire wall with footage of a giant blood plant heavily laden with seedpods.

“—
in the Dallas metro area. Reports of similar plants are coming in from all over the continent, Richard, and the concern is that this plant isn’t only invasive, it’s deadly. As of this moment, seven deaths have been directly linked to the ingestion of seeds from this plant. Local authorities in Chicago are already discussing possible defensive measures, should these dangerous plants make an appearance
—”

“Oh, scrap. We’re so screwed,” I moan.

“Is this as bad as it looks?”

“Worse, Tim. Those things are more aggressive than you can imagine.”

Tim’s face falls, but he’s holding fast to a tiny thread of hope. “Yeah, but it’s still early, right? Maybe there’s still a chance we can wipe them out before they get fully established.”

“No, Tim. You’re not getting it. That plant?” I nod to the Viseon wall, where an aerial view of a large specimen has burst through the roof of an apartment building, as if climbing toward the sky. The visible portion is easily forty feet tall. Even from a distance, the seedpods are clearly distinguishable. “Every one of those seedpods contains thousands of seeds. And they’re capable of germinating just about anywhere. If even one of those pods ruptures, that entire city block will look like that apartment building in just a few days.”

“Surely it won’t be allowed to get that far along? They’ll probably torch the building or something, don’t you think?”

“Maybe. But as long as a seed—or even just a leaf—survives, it’ll just grow back. Either way, it’s too late. If we’re seeing this one, you can bet there are more out there that haven’t been discovered yet.”

“—
sources at the FBI and CDC have independently corroborated speculation that these plants may have been engineered and then accidentally released during the production of an innocent pharmaceutical product
—” Hah! Innocent, my butt. “—
Little is known at this point about the
—”