“Early next year.”
Which meant eight whole months of relative sanity—once the conference was over.
Lydia glanced at her watch, redundantly. “I don’t understand you. A high-profile special on Distress would be the logical endpoint of everything you’ve been doing for the last five years. After that, you could think about switching away from biotech. And who am I going to use instead of you?”
“Sarah Knight?”
“Don’t be sarcastic.”
“I’ll tell her you said that.”
“Be my guest. I don’t care what she’s done in politics; she’s only made one science program—and that was on fringe cosmology. It was good— but not good enough to ramp her straight into something like this. She’s earned a fortnight with Violet Mosala, but not a primetime broadcast on the world’s alphamost virus.”
Nobody had found a virus associated with Distress; I hadn’t seen a news bulletin for a week, but my knowledge miner would have told me if there’d been a breakthrough of that magnitude. I was beginning to get the queasy feeling that if I didn’t make the program myself, it would be subtitled: How an escaped military pathogen became the 21st-century AIDS of the mind.
Pure vanity. What did I think—that I was the only person on the planet capable of deflating the rumors and hysteria surrounding Distress?
I said, “I haven’t made any decision yet. I need to talk it over with Gina.”
Lydia was skeptical. “Okay, fine. ‘Talk it over with Gina,’ and call me in the morning.” She glanced at her watch again. “Look, I really have to go. Some of us actually have work to do.” I opened my mouth to protest, outraged; she smiled sweetly and aimed two fingers at me. “Gotcha. No sense of irony, you auteurs. ‘Bye.”
I turned away from the console and sat staring down at my clenched fists, trying to untangle what I was feeling—if only enough to enable me to put it all aside and get back to Junk DNA.
I’d seen a brief news shot of someone with Distress, a few months before. I’d been in a hotel room in Manchester, flicking channels between appointments. A young woman—looking healthy, but disheveled—was lying on her back in a corridor in an apartment building in Miami. She was waving her arms wildly, kicking in all directions, tossing her head and twisting her whole body back and forth. It hadn’t looked like the product of any kind of crude neurological dysfunction, though: it had seemed too coordinated, too purposeful.
And before the police and paramedics could hold her still—or still enough to get a needle in—and pump her full of some high-powered court-order paralytic like Straitjacket or Medusa—they’d tried the sprays, and they hadn’t worked—she’d thrashed and screamed like an animal in mortal agony, like a child in a solipsistic rage, like an adult in the grip of the blackest despair.
I’d watched and listened in disbelief—and when, mercifully, she’d been rendered comatose and dragged away, I’d struggled to convince myself that it had been nothing out of the ordinary: some kind of epileptic fit, some kind of psychotic tantrum, at worst some kind of unbearable physical pain the cause of which would be swiftly identified and dealt with.
None of which was true. Victims of Distress rarely had a history of neurological or mental illness, and bore no signs of injury or disease. And no one had the slightest idea how to deal with the cause of their suffering; the only current “treatment” consisted of sustained heavy sedation.
I picked up my notepad and touched the icon for Sisyphus, my knowledge miner.
I said, “Assemble a briefing on Violet Mosala, the Einstein Centenary conference, and the last ten years’ advances in Unified Field Theories. I’ll need to digest it all in about… a hundred and twenty hours. Is that feasible?”
There was pause while Sisyphus downloaded the relevant sources and scrutinized them. Then it asked, “Do you know what an ATM is?”
“An Automatic Teller Machine?”
“No. In this context, an ATM is an All-Topologies Model.”
The phrase sounded vaguely familiar; I’d probably skimmed through a brief article on the topic, five years before.
There was another pause, while more elementary background material was downloaded and assessed. Then: “A hundred and twenty hours would be good enough for listening and nodding. Not for asking intelligent questions.”
I groaned. “How long for…?”
“A hundred and fifty.”
“Do it.”
I hit the icon for the pharm unit, and said, “Recompute my melatonin doses. Give me two more hours of peak alertness a day, starting immediately.”
“Until when?”
The conference began on April 5th; if I wasn’t an expert on Violet Mosala by then, it would be too late. But… I couldn’t risk cutting loose from the forced rhythms of the melatonin—and rebounding into erratic sleep patterns—in the middle of filming.
“April 18th.”
The pharm said, “You’ll be sorry.”
That was no generic warning—it was a prediction based on five years’ worth of intimate biochemical knowledge. But I had no real choice—and if I spent the week after the conference suffering from acute circadian arrhythmia, it would be unpleasant, but it wouldn’t kill me.
I did some calculations in my head. Somehow, I’d just conjured up five or six hours of free time out of thin air.
It was a Friday. I phoned Gina at work. Rule number six: Be unpredictable. But not too often.
I said, “Screw Junk DNA. Want to go dancing?”
5
It was Gina’s idea to go deep into the city. The Ruins held no attraction for me—and there was far better nightlife closer to home—but (rule number seven) it wasn’t worth an argument. When the train pulled into Town Hall station, and we took the escalators up past the platform where Daniel Cavolini had been stabbed to death, I blanked my mind and smiled.
Gina linked arms with me and said, “There’s something here I don’t feel anywhere else. An energy, a buzz. Can’t you feel it?”
I looked around at the station’s black-and-white tiled walls, graffiti-proof and literally antiseptic.
“No more than in Pompeii.”
The demographic center of greater Sydney had been west of Parra-matta for at least half a century—and had probably reached Blacktown, by now—but the demise of the historical urban core had begun in earnest only in the thirties, when office space, cinemas, theatres, physical galleries and public museums had all become obsolete at more or less the same time. Broadband optical fibers had been connected to most residential buildings since the teens, but it had taken another two decades for the networks to mature. The tottering edifice of incompatible standards, inefficient hardware, and archaic operating systems thrown together by the fin-de-siècle dinosaurs of computing and communications had been razed to the ground in the twenties, and only then—after years of premature hype and well-earned backlashes of cynicism and ridicule—could the use of the networks for entertainment and telecommuting be transmuted from a form of psychological torture into a natural and convenient alternative to ninety percent of physical travel.
We stepped out onto George Street. It was far from deserted, but I’d seen footage from days when the country’s population was half as much, and it shamed these meager crowds. Gina looked up, and her eyes caught the lights; many of the old office towers still dazzled, their windows decorated for the tourists with cheap sunlight-storing luminescent coatings. “The Ruins” was a joke, of course—vandalism, let alone time, had scarcely made a mark—but we were all tourists, here, come to gawk at the monuments left behind, not by our ancestors, but by our older siblings.