CHAPTER 2

The lab was now cast in a purple glow, the “alert” color used when any problem reached crisis stage.  One didn’t need to convince Urian, whose hands feverishly worked the keyboard, sending new program data to the screen.  “How much longer?” he shouted.

From behind the racks of equipment, Skitter yelled back, “I’m there.  I’m there,” as he used his smart image phone to receive data from Urian, while re-plugging cables and exchanging boards.

“You’re not there,” answered Urian.  “Sending you some alternatives.”  He hit “enter” and lifted his eyes to the monitor for Gloria’s apartment.

Gloria sat wistfully on the toilet, holding her head.  From the other side of the door, Marge, her roommate, asked, “You want Tylenol or Midol?”

“Jesus, Marge, Tylenol.”

“Some night’s sleep you had.”

“Thought I’d forgotten the son-of-a-bitch,” groaned Gloria

“That kind of animal, you never forget,” answered Marge.

Gloria flushed and lifted herself to the mirror.  “You’re one ugly piece of…”

Marge opened the door and placed two Tylenol and a glass of water on the sink shelf.  “Oh, stop it, Gloria.  You’re beautiful as always.   Here, I’ll go put on some coffee,” and she left.

Gloria leaned in closer to the mirror, rubbing her temples.  “What the hell is going on with my head?”

***

After giving the idea serious thought, Roxanne decided that she would venture into the Keyhole Project and trust what she had been told.  After all, she was a successful writer, and although the money wasn’t the issue, living in an exclusive East Side luxury building, with as eclectic a crowd as the project said were signed up, meant there wouldn’t be no short supply for character ideas.

Roxanne stood, directing the movers while still trying to get used to the idea that whatever she was seeing, someone else was monitoring and studying.   “Careful with that!  Fragile, you know,” she bellowed.

Movers carried the furniture past her and around to the side of the building where the freight elevator waited to receive her twenty-eight hundred pounds of furnishings.  Showing the frayed nerves of a moving day, she turned to Hector, the doorman, with the thick manila envelope she had tucked under her arm.   “Oh, I’m so nervous with this move.  Thank you for holding this for me.  Mr. Larett will probably send a messenger for it later today.  Oh, I’m sorry.  You did introduce yourself earlier, but I’m terrible with…”

Hector flashed his trademark smile.  “Hector.”

Roxanne extended her hand.  “Hector.  Beautiful name.  I’ll not forget it again.  Roxanne Daniels.”

Hector once again smiled and bowed his head.  “Pleased to meet you.  Don’t worry about it.  With so much to deal with today, I’m sure your mind is busy.”

“You’re very kind.  This is exciting.  Beautiful building.”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it.  And beautiful tenants.  Very interesting people.  Especially your next-door neighbors.”

“Really?  In what…”  Her eye caught the movers lifting her large antique mirror from the truck and started maneuvering it around to the elevator.  “I’d better go with that.  Thank you again, Hector.  Guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

“This is my spot, Ms. Daniels.  I’ll make sure the package is taken care of,” he said, once again flashing his winning smile.

Urian leaned toward the satellite monitors scanning the Godard.  He adjusted several controls trying to clean up the digital noise distorting the screens.  “Skitter, how long you going to crawl around back there?”

From behind the monitors, Skitter yelled back, “You think I’m gettin’ off on this?  Another couple seconds.”

Urian continued trying to clear the screens, paying special attention to the one marked Richard.  “Just hurry, man.  This is scary.  Jesus!  This upgrade is supposed to be about making things better.”

Suddenly, Richard’s monitor cleared up, showing him collapsed, soaking in a bathtub.  “Look at him.  His screen is a mess.”

Saeger stepped up to the Urian.  “Just a glitch.  No big deal.”

Urian shook his head.  “Let’s just hope Quill’s dream testing doesn’t screw up again.”

Saeger grinned.  “Got to admit, though, that recent upgrade is somethin’ else.  Picture quality is almost 3-D.  Love to know what they did.”

The noise on the other screens finally dissipated.  Saeger switched from one to the other, confirming they had standardized.

“God, how many tenants we got now?” asked Urian.

Saeger nodded.  “With you lounging at Station Three, for two months, you don’t know shit, do you?  Over sixty.  Welcome home.  We’re up double what we had.  KH5 is working overtime.”

“Isn’t going to be easy getting into that many brains and keeping control.  You know that, don’t you?  After seven years, why the hell is Quill having her recruit so many, so fast?”

Skitter rolled out from behind the monitors and unzipped his white jumpsuit. “‘Cause he wants to prove to the higher ups that his computer farm is still state of the art.”

“What’s he got to prove?” asked Saeger.  “Doesn’t take a geek to see…It is state of the art.”

Skitter moved to his station and checked out some wave-scopes, taking notes.  “Arguable, right Urian?”

Urian fixed his gaze on Skitter’s scopes.  “Later.  Kinda low, aren’t they?”

“Readings are coming up.”  Skitter turned to Urian. “Am I right?  The farm’s getting retired?”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“I used to crack encryption for a living, remember?  My coffee breaks are my time, and I love to play around.”

Urian nodded.  “You mean check out Quill’s messaging.  Not nice.  Okay, so there’s some new experimental holographic technology out there, yeah.  Doesn’t mean we have to bump up when it’s available.”

Skitter shrugged. “Hey, what do I know?  Could have misread my own deciphering.”

Urian leaned into Skitter’s notes.  “Yeah.  Best you think that way.  Let’s worry about what we got right here and stop screwin’ around with areas that don’t concern you.”

“Yo, brother.  Just doin’ my job… watchin’ everything.”

“Good.  Think you can watch the screens closer and keep us from another scare for awhile?”

Skitter double-checked his notes, gave one last glance at his read-out scopes, and said, “Don’t know where that spike came from, but it’s smooth as silk now.”

Urian stood up and stretched.  “Good.  Keep it that way.  ‘Spike?’  Hardly.  Took you two hours to reprogram and tune up.  Hardly a spike.”  He sighed and turned to Saeger.  “So, let’s see what the rest of our tenants are doing.”

The screens were clear of all distortion now, and as they rotated through the apartments, tenants were indeed—active.

Apartment twenty-eight – Terrance Learner, a slightly balding bespectacled, mid-life train wreck trying to happen, sat on his couch in his entertainment room.   He was surrounded by electronic equipment and gadgets.  On the coffee table was his recently purchased Androids- R-Us test model of a 3d printer robot that functioned like a parrot named Clancy that wouldn’t shut up.  Terrance was amused as the robot imitated the various voices on the TV program running.

Apartment fifteen – Two 20’s Asian girls, Botang and Sniff were working on another robot—their apartment looking more like a garage than a luxury living space.  “Beats the hell out of your fuckin’ Clancy thing.  This one will imitate anyone’s voice,” said Botang, the more feminine of the two.

“So what you want, B, a medal?” responded Sniff.  “Fucking parrot’s supposed to be limited.  I built it the way I saw it, okay?”

Botang winked at Sniff.  “You’re so sexy when you get pissy.”

“Next,” said Skitter with a grin.  “Pistols, those two.  Good for lunch break.”

Apartment forty-four – Marge and Gloria were working out several women clients on stationary bikes, rowing machines and stair-steppers.  Several other women were working with weights.  Here again, an apartment was utilized in the way that fit the tenant, many of whom were from any walk of life other than “luxury.”

Number sixty-one – A new comer, Rio, a shy Brazilian man of 21, laid a McDonalds uniform on his bed, carefully attaching his Manager pin on the breast pocket.

Saeger moved in closer, pad in hand, and took copious notes as the next monitor was highlighted.  Mario, a slicked back grease-head salesman for “Custom Capture - Home Security Alarms,” stood before his TV as the picture showed burglars listening intently at a window they’re about to break through.  Scattered about were various pieces of amateur video camera and editing hardware.  Obviously making his own Infomercial, he picked up a microphone, flipped his video camera on and adjusted his position. “What we have here is a classic example of why Custom Capture is the alarm for you.  Notice…”

Saeger laughed.  “Gotta love it.”

Urian grinned.  “You eat this voyeur stuff up, don’t you?”

Still keeping his eye glued to Mario’s screen, he said, “You get hitched up for a two-year stint at Station 3, you’d be voyeur too.  Your two months there was nothing.   Didn’t even give you time to realize the only thing to look at was black space with a few twinkling stars to break it up.  Shit… this is like a candy shop to a junky.”

“One way to look at it,” said Urian.  “My couple of months was enough, thank you.  Had to be messier for you, though.”

“Shit.  That Mario’s good.”  Saeger glanced at Urian.  “Messy?  First year, with the quarantine, decontamination, detox, living in a LifeSuit 24/7, watching 80% die… yeah.  You might say, ‘messier.’”

Urian nodded.  “And here we are.”

“Here we are.  The lucky ones.”

Urian checked Richard’s monitor again.  The installed corner cameras showed Richard soaking in the bathtub, his exhausted eyes still focused on the wall.  “This guy never blinks.”

Skitter smiled and switched the split screen to Richard’s POV.  “Would you?”

On the wall was a collage of girlie magazine centerfolds.

Saeger shrugged.  “I guess if you’re going to have an addiction, could be worse.”

“Worked for that president way back.  What was his name… Clinton?”

Urian became sullen.  “Beats the hell out of getting fucked by a truck driver.”

“Gloria missed a good poke, didn’t she?”

Urian gave Saeger a dirty look.

“Just makin’ conversation.  Just a joke.”

Urian sat back in his chair and lit a cigarette.  His mind was elsewhere.  “I want Richard and Gloria’s implants checked out… and, Christ, how could I forget Liz.  She’s had the same barbed wire dream as Richard too many times.  Arrange for all three to be checked out, Skitter.”

Skitter turned and nodded.  “Sure.  You’re the boss.”

“In this room, at least.  What if Quill has an extra experiment going on with Richard?  When I left for Station 3, he’d picked Richard and Liz for that dream transference experiment.  Gloria wasn’t part of it.  What happened there?”

“Don’t have a clue,” said Skitter.

“I though he was pushing it when he sent us the memo about Richard and Liz, but now Gloria?  And Tito.  Wonder if he’s telling us everything about Tito, as well.  He’s still the only one he’s fucking around with who doesn’t know anything about us, right?”

Skitter nodded.

“Saeger?” asked Urian.

“Far as I know,” answered Saeger.  “Just the one, ‘Dummy.”’

Urian took a long drag on his cigarette.  “Trust Quill to come up with a respectable label like Dummy.”

“Sophistication has never been his trump card,” said Skitter.  “His memo at the time laid out a pretty good argument though.  Remember?  ‘We need data from a homeless person, but there’s no way it will work having such a person as a tenant at the Godard,’ remember?”

“Yeah, I remember.  All because of his paranoia… as if anyone in New York city gives a rat’s ass who lives next to them, as long as they don’t make noise.”

“Got that right,” said Saeger with a sigh.  “His problem, though, is he’s never going to believe all the tenants are just going about their lives… normal, like a homeless person.  Incidentally, while you were gone, Urian… ten, twelve memos about how and what I was supposed to watch closely for on the screens.  Christ, he doesn’t even trust A-2.”

“What if it’s not Quill drivin’ this train?  What if Tito was A-2’s idea?” said Skitter.

Saeger searched his pocket for a Tums.  “Whoever’s responsible, it was like Quill was just waiting for the moment to happen naturally, you know, like he knew Tito would wind up with blurred vision one night while rehearsing with Hector, and bingo—a natural reason for Hector to haul him next day downtown to the optometrist.  You got a Tums?”

Skitter shook his head and adjusted the density on the screen’s master switch as he made light the course of events.  “And, ‘let’s see what we have here,’ says the doctor, and bam, implant.  The rest is archived with A-2.  Two months now.  Gotta tell you, though, never a dull moment with Tito.  Guy never sleeps.  Third shift gets entertained all night here, while we have to…”

“Okay, Skitter.  Enough.”  Urian stood up and walked to the corner for a cup of coffee.  “You guys saw it all happen.  You think Hector is in on it, or did he just do his usual Good Samaritan thing and take him to our optometrist because that’s what’s listed in the Godard directory?”

Saeger joined him in pouring a cup of coffee.  “Who the hell knows?  Tell you one thing, though, I’ve always thought there was more to Hector than just being The Godard’s Renaissance man.”

“Those homeless actors Hector works with think he walks on water,” Skitter chimed in.

“Interesting image,” said Saeger.

Urian returned to his chair and focused in on Tito’s screen.  The label read: Dummy.

Tito sat, patiently waiting on a park bench directly across the street from The Godard, staring at the large clock imbedded in the art deco façade.  The time was 4:30 PM.  On his lap were sheets of paper he continually referred to as he rehearsed the words.  “Gotta get this part right… gotta nail it for Hector.”  He took a breath, let it out slowly, and continued.  “Used to be you could grab some heat from the subway, ya know?  Gratings were fair game.  Now… now, you get three, maybe four shoes in the gut a night.  I ain’t doin’ nothin’ to nobody, you understand.  I’m way downtown… out of the way by 6 A.M. every day.   Every day.”  He looked at the pages again, then glanced at his Mickey Mouse watch, its broken face still letting him see that the time matched the big clock.  “Four more hours.  Four more hours.”

Urian peered at Tito’s screen.  “Four more hours, Tito.  Four more.”

The 7:45 PM darkness of Manhattan was now filled with cabs rushing to the theatre district with their fares.  Office workers had all but filled every bar in town for the habitual numbing juice so many relied on. 

At the Godard, the night shift doorman, Peter,  a tall, lanky no-personality man of fifty, opened the cab door, nodded and tipped his hat to one of the more affluent tenants who could afford taxis.  He was followed by a Guatemalan nanny in white uniform trudging home after a tortuous day on her feet.  “Evening, Ms. Puente.” 

“Fuck off,” said Ms. Puente.

“Absolutely,” said the doorman.

In the Godard furnace room sat Tito on an apple box, facing the furnace and water boiler, whose gas flame reflected off the painted floor, sending an arc of orange and purple light across the painted concrete. Overhead, hung a cord suspending a single sixty-watt bulb.  In the doorway, at his backside, stood Hector, loosening his tie.  “You’ve almost got it, Tito.  A couple more hours.”

“Couple more hours, Hector.  I’ll get it.  I’ll get it.”

“I know you will,” said Hector, a prideful smile enveloping his face.  “I’ll be next door, okay, if you need me.”

“If I need you.  Gotta get this myself.  Myself.”

“Understood, Tito.”  Hector reached over and patted him on the shoulder, turned and walked to his basement apartment, closing the door behind him.

“So,” started Tito again.  “So, anyway… people… people need to remember they’re people, ya know?  Machines don’t know no better and machines want to take over, but people… that’s where it’s at.”  He glanced at his script.  “When a machine, like the street sweeper pushes me around… now that’s a machine and I stand up to him.  I mean, literally, I stand up to him.” He chuckles, “and he gets pissed, ya know, really pissed, but he stops his tank ‘cause he don’t want no road kill on his conscience, or have to go to court and make it look like an accident, with me standin’ up to him, ya know what I mean?  He’s still human… the driver.  He knows when to stop.  People have choices.  You hear what I’m sayin’?”  He looks at his script again.

Urian was leaning on his folded arms, a pleasant smile filling his face as he peered at the monitor.  “Yeah, we hear you Tito.  People do have choices.”

On another screen, a much larger one stretching across a wall, the same image of Tito was only one of hundreds being shuffled in a digital scramble.  From somewhere in the room, the calm, authoritative voice of Quill could be heard demanding, “Find it, A-2.