Chapter 22

2:30 AM brought the band members out the door of the Godard speakeasy.  They stepped out onto the sidewalk, said “so long,” and went in separate directions.  The trumpet player, instrument case in hand, walked alone up the street and past the plumes of rising steam from the gratings. 

Tito, still enjoying his drink of choice, stood on the chair, peered out the basement window at the trumpet player merging into the night.  Sounding like a train conductor, he bellowed, “we're gonna be left behind... you and me... everything that bleeds gonna be left behind, man.”  His sorrowful voice trailed off as he maintained his fix on the corner semaphore as it changed from green to yellow to red.  His breathing became quiet.  The red keeping everything calm allowed a chamber of remembrance to flood his mind. 

The reflection in the window filled with his exhaustion, bringing the mist of the past to his eyes.  “Hey, Zelda?” he whispered, the sound of her name joyfully lifting the corners of his mouth.  “You hearin' me now, Zelda?  Can't help thinkin' about those times in the refrigerator box.  Remember that?  You had that old Sony Walkman... one with the broken lid.  You kept the one tape of Peggy Lee in there all the time.  Used to lie there and listen to ‘Is that all there is?’  Remember?  You used to smile so big.  Just smile and say, ‘She's right... but it's ok, Tito.’  You remember that?"  

The filaments of the light bulb hanging from the ceiling started to spark their demise.  He paused and bowed his head.   “Then you up and die on me... and here I am.  Here I am.  Just memories.”  After a moment, he stepped down from the chair and retrieved the script.   Stepping back toward the musty wall, he starred into the make-believe furnace fire.  “Lines.  Lines.  So many lines.  For what?”

After a moment, he gripped the imaginary shovel, dug it into the non-existent coal pile and pitched a load into the fire.  Eyeing the floor, he propped the shovel against the furnace, feigned the heat roaring out of the furnace door with a turn of his shoulder, leaned down and picked up a large boulder-sized piece of the fuel, and pushed it into the furnace, jerking back as if the tongue of the fire had singed his face.  He picked up the shovel and started throwing even larger scoops into the fire.  “Fear, man.  And what do we do?  Surround ourselves with stuff to protect us from the fear.  Then we go out and buy some more stuff, and more stuff, ‘cause the fucking fear-monster is insatiable, man, and, and…”

He stopped once again and gazed from the flames up to the basement window.  “And some of us don’t have the money for stuff, right?”  The tears flowed freely now.  “Remember when we dragged that refrigerator box together, Zelda?  Remember that?”  He shook his head and wiped his eyes.  “Time to go, Zelda... gotta get these lines.”  He dropped into his chair, picked up the script, and started thumbing through to the next section.  The filaments of the overhead bulb surged with what might have been its last gasp to stay lit.

***

The breaking dawn outlined the buildings as an occasional cab, a limo, and delivery trucks began dotting the landscape.  “Tryin' to get to the other side of the road, man.  Just tryin' to stay warm.”

***

Down by the river, a street-sweeper passed various homeless sleeping in makeshift cardboard shelters off to the side of the road.  Finally, the rolling vacuum brought its growl to a pause next to a refrigerator box half in the gutter, half on the curb.  The sweeper stopped.  The diesel exhaust wheezed.  After a few moments, the driver leaned out the window and yelled, “Hey, anybody in there?  Hey, Buddy!”  The engine revved.  “Poor bastard.  Ah, fuck it!”  The gears changed.  The sweeper pulled out around the box and continued down the street.

***

Urian, Skitter and Saeger, standing in silhouette, watched Tito's monitor as the little man leaned on the phantom shovel, looking more like an urchin version of Marcel Marceau, than an actor preparing.  The perspiration dripped off his face, down his arm and onto the dusty floor.  “We can dodge the wake of fumes passin' us, or try and hitch a ride in the slip-stream, can’t we?  Choices.  But, do we still have choices… really?”

Hector stepped out of the shadows and stood stoic, his own eyes welling up as Tito let out a guttural wail.  “I don't remember that being in the script, Tito.”

Tito straightened up, wiped his face and propped the imaginary shovel against the furnace.  He starred into the fire.  “Yeah... I don't either.  Just more make-believe.”  Tito held his gaze into the dark cavity of the furnace.

Hector stepped up to Tito to get a clearer look at this man who was now totally given to his own thoughts and words.  Their eyes locked.

“Why do I feel like I have the memories of a hundred voices right now, Hector?  Why?” Tito mumbled through his exhaustion.

“Because you’re doing something special.”

“I don't understand.”

“You will... in time.”

***

High above the earth, the reflection from the sun off the metallic skin of Quill’s satellite washed the lenses into a white burn out.

***

After weeks of telephone calls and e-mails, Roxanne’s strategy to get Mrs. Turner to persuade her husband to clean up his bills, appeared to be paying off. 

Following Hector’s party, exiting just before dawn from The Godard, Roxanne smiled at Sam as he talked on the intercom to another resident.  At the curb was a black stretch limo with the motor running.  All seemed like just another night at The Godard.  The driver jumped out and opened the back door of the limo, touching the brim of his hat.  “Miss Daniels.”

“Lester,” said Roxanne, “New car.  Nice.” As she stooped to enter, she tapped his coat pocket.  “Leonard leave you with something for me?”

“It’s inside.”

She stepped into the limo and as Lester closed the door, a man in the back seat held her, while another pressed an ether-soaked handkerchief against her mouth and nose.  Roxanne slumped to the floorboards as Lester got in and drove off.

The two men lifted her into a sitting position and positioned themselves on both sides to keep her propped up.  After a few moments of driving, one man turned to the other with, “Nice perfume.”

“Yeah.”

***

That same morning, Roxanne, still dressed as the night before, idly swayed in a hammock, groggily awakening to the surf a few yards away.  Around her were a couple of palm trees, a grass hut, and some plastic flowers in pots at a thatched entrance to her one-room cabin.  In the distance, she saw the hotel name, Beachcomber.  Original, she thought. Where the fuck am I?  She looked out at the horizon, nothing but ocean.  To her left, endless sand.  To her right, endless sand.  She then rolled out onto the ground.  Next to her on a Steel Drum patio table, she saw an envelope and a gaily-wrapped package propped up against a vase with another plastic flower.  She opened it and read: Apparently, you forgot -- to get tough, you better be tough.  Enjoy your vacation before you start your new career.  IOU Leonard.  She opened the package and removed a paperback book, "Shell Jewelry Made Simple."  Bewilderment filled her face as the shoreline rippled with shells washing back and forth.

***

“You seem quiet,” said Quill as he maneuvered the Hummer over roadless desert terrain, dodging cactus and occasional sandstone boulders.

Urian reached for the overhead handgrip.  “Just saying my prayers.  You like driving… like…a… madman?”

“The only way out here.  Look, I know… damn that was a hole and a half, wasn’t it?  I know you think me, well, nosey at times, yes?”

“Yes.”

“I’m really not.  It’s just the fear of failing.”

Taken aback by the sudden change of subject, Urian repeated, “Failing?  We were talking about eavesdropping on my sleeping and interrogating A2?  What’s failing got to do with it?”

“Everything.  Just like I explained.  You’re my responsibility no less than The Godard people.”  Quill gestured out the window toward the domed magnetic field, and its two-way mirror configuration.  “You know, we’ll reach the edge of the property in about an hour and you’ll see the obsessive vigil that journalists from all over the world keep.  They’ve been camped out around the twenty-five hundred square mile perimeter for three years now. That’s insanity, Urian.  Hummers, just like this one, drive the outskirts of the dome, day after day, month after month, hoping to find a clue, a hint…”  He laughed.  “And especially to find an exit/entrance.  All while you and I remain isolated and determined to solve the problem.  It’s all a hell of a responsibility.”  He glanced over at Urian, who remained stoic.  “I’ll say it again… I’m sorry.  It was inexcusable to intrude on you and Marsha’s intimacy.  ManBot1 will not be revived without your permission.  Okay?”

Urian thought another moment.  “It’s not the ManBot1 thing that’s bothering me.”

Quill turned once more toward his most trusted colleague.  “I don’t understand.”

“The responsibility you speak of.  That’s what gives me sleepless nights… like last night.”

“We’ve got another twenty or so miles to go.  Why don’t you tell me what the hell’s worrying you?”

“Mind if I smoke?”

“Of course I mind, but what good is that going to do me?  You wanna kill…”

“Please.  No lectures.”  Urian cracked the window and lit up.  Exhaling, he began.  “So… what’s bothering me?”  He turned to Quill.  “You and I respect the responsibility we bear with all this Godard and Station Three business, but what about A2?”

“Urian, we’ve had…”

“This conversation before.  I know.  But I’m still concerned.”

“She’s fine.”

“Fine as in content and happy.  I know that.”

“Fine,” said Quill with a bit of rancor in his voice, “as in I have her under control.  Like any adolescent, she just needs some discipline once in a while.”

Urian shook his head and broke a smile.  “Jesus.  An entity that may hold our future evolution in her bosom of nanobot armies working 24/7, and you identify her as ‘adolescent’?” 

“She’s just two years old, Urian.  A1 has eight years on her.  And in dog…”

“…years that’s a fourteen-year-old and a twenty-eight year old.  I know.”

Quill didn’t respond, but sat up, adjusted his seat belt and said, “These old flash flood gullies are a pain in the ass.  Hold on.”

The Hummer bumped, jumped, rolled, and skidded in and out of swimming pool sized ruts, finally coming to level ground again.  Urian opened his water bottle and took a long drink.  “Jesus.  Thought you said this was going to be a ‘nice’ surprise.”

“We’ll be there soon.  Now… about your disdain for my dog years analogy.  With having to keep all this discovery documented, writing it out with some analogies that the layman can understand is a hell of lot less trouble than trying to make them comprehend the exponential nature of nanotechnology.  Dog years make it simpler to get your arms around.”

“Okay.  Fine.  So, maybe the real concern here should be she is young… adolescent, as you say.  If you’re having trouble trusting…”

“For Christ sake, Urian.  She’s a machine.  Take the word adolescent with a grain of fucking salt, okay?  Just like the difference between you and me isn’t our intelligence, nearly as much as our experience.  Her experience is doubling daily… hopefully into some wisdom.  A1 has drawn upon tens of thousands.  A2 is working with only a hundred-sixty Keyhole subjects.  She’s not even on the rag yet.”

Urian laughed.  “Okay.  Point made.  You’re sure though?”

“Sure?  About what?”

“She’s in control?”

“As much control as one can expect with an…”

“Adolescent.  Damn.  I’m dense sometimes, aren’t I?”

“You said it, not me.”

The ride was smooth and without conversation for the next few miles.  Urian glanced up often at the domed cover and watched commercial airplanes, as well as military fly over.  As they reached the base of a long gradual climb to the top of a hill, Urian asked, “What’d you think of that latest Wall Street Journal article?”

“Boring.  Why’d you bring that up?”

“The crew was talking about it.  We got in a big discussion and I realized we’ve never discussed any of the crazy stories written about you.”

Quill laughed.  “Well, of all, and there’ve been plenty, this one was the most outrageous.  And especially from the Journal.  They called me ‘the 21st Century Dr. Moreau,’ suggesting the dome was a decoy for, how did they put it, ‘…Mr. Quill’s real work being done in some other remote laboratory where he’s probably toying with more world power.’  Such rubbish.  Like I’m a Goldfinger or something.”

“Why do you think they wrote that kind of story?”

Quill shrugged.  “Same ol’, same ol’.  Machines were once everybody’s friend.  Now they’re perceived by some as the enemy.  Ever hear of capitalism?  Nanobot evolution is scary to a lot of people.  They loved it when the mini-machines were healing their diseased and worn-out parts, but now… enough are aware now that programmed a certain way, nanobots can ‘think’ on the fly, and that…”  He smiled and nodded to himself.  “That’s science at its best.  Einstein would be dancin’ a jig today with all that’s going on.”

“Why do you think they, the papers, want to promote the fear and throw the scare threats in our faces?”

“The public at large will never change.  They’re slow to come around to anything new, Urian, especially anything that might challenge the sanctity of institutions.  With all the proffered myths, I’m a threat.  What do people do when there’s a threat?  Pray.  Whom do they pray to?  Some God of their choice.  The public needs the supernatural to validate the righteousness of their fears.  Thank religion for that.”        

They reached the hilltop and Quill pulled the vehicle to rest.  He pointed down the other side to the peripheral edge of the dome.  The two-way mirror effect let them view the dozens of journalists, tents, RV’s, even modular small buildings housing broadcast facilities.  As far as the eye could see, the outside perimeter was dotted with sun-weary cameramen and writers, some in vehicles taking their daily long drive around the edge of the dome, while others sat under umbrellas and chairs gazing at their own reflection.

“Is that nuts or what?” said Quill.

Urian unbuckled and stepped out of the Hummer, taking a pair of binoculars with him.  Quill joined him with his own viewing tool, a prototype holographic camera with a long lens, miniature parabolic microphone, and earphones.

Urian dropped the binoculars to his waist.  ‘“Or what?’ is right.”

Quill maintained a fix on the spectacle.  “You’d think after a year or so, they’d get tired, but no… just a Paparazzi pack of the past, vultures hoping for some sign, some validation of their fear and faith.”  Quill passed the camera and headphones over to Urian.  “Here.  You have to watch it holographic style.  That little microphone picks up everything... can track the running scratches of a scorpion at a thousand yards.  Take a look.”

Urian put on the headphones and peered into the viewfinder.  “Shit.  When’d you get this?”

“Had it developed in the Sweden lab.  Nice, eh?  Holographic images you can touch are just around the corner.”

“Touch?” said Urian.

“Yeah.  It’ll record the molecular makeup in any image and create a VR facsimile in front of you.”

“Nasty.”

“Haven’t heard that word since college.  You might say that.  With satellite-transmitted holograms of anyone’s medical history accessible from anywhere, we’ll be advancing faster than historians can write it.  Surgery performed with touch, temperature, sight and sound.  From a thousand miles away.  Like that? Makes digital surgery via robots kid’s play, eh?”

“Like it?  Is that what you brought me all the way out here to say?”

Quill smiled.  “Partly.  Come.  This dog and pony show is getting old.  Got something really important to show you.”

For the next hour, Urian indulged Quill’s Cheshire grin as he drove back toward the center of the property.  They drove up over another hill and dropped down into a valley where the remnants of a once sunbaked ghost town now bathed in the year-round dome temperature of sixty-eight degrees.  “A little perk for the history buff in me.  This town housed a couple of thousand silver and gold crazies back in the nineteenth century.”

Urian picked up the holographic camera.  “You mind?”

“Be my guest.”

Urian pressed his eye to the viewfinder and drank up the history as if it were within arm’s reach.  “This camera is fantastic.”

“You’re about to get some even better visuals, Urian.”

Quill veered the Hummer to the left and skirted another hill coming into yet another valley.  He stopped, turned his grin toward Urian, and pointed out the window and up the hill.  “What do you think?”

Urian looked, then glanced back at Quill, his eyebrows arched, as if to say, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Go ahead.  Snap a couple.  You’ll want more on top.”

Urian did as he was told, then rested the camera on his lap as Quill turned the Hummer up toward the hilltop home.  “That’s a perfect copy of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater house,” said Quill proudly.

“Perfect copy?”

“Thank our adolescent computer, A2.  She engineered its construction right after I put her into operation.  Just about bankrupted my original nanobot supply, but duplicating as they can, it didn’t take long to replicate the numbers necessary.  Six months of labor.  Like it?”

“How the hell did you get all that water and trees out here?”

Quill gave him a look.

“Oh, yeah.  Sorry.  How many of those little bots you use, really?”

“Four-hundred-fifty million.  They just made like rabbits.  The rest was easy.”

They drove through the pine and spruce trees to the front of the house and stopped.  Urian just gazed about him in disbelief.  They were parked in a driveway that was surrounded by the same kind of trees that graced the original in Pennsylvania all the way back into the middle 20^th Century.  

“Always been one of my favorite pieces of architecture.  That construction of sandstone, which originally had been quarried on the Pennsylvania property, you know, serves to separate those reinforced concrete trays which form the living and bedroom levels.”

By this time, Urian was walking onto the dramatically cantilevered platforms over the streams and falls.  “This is like an oasis.”

“That’s exactly what it is.  And it’s yours.”

Urian turned, his mouth agape.  “Say again.”

“Yours.  I’ve had many a weekend pleasure here for the past few years.  Figure I’ll give A2 a real challenge and build me an original… a levitating house.”

Urian whipped his head around.  “Why levitating?”

“Because it’s a challenge, Urian.”

“No doubt, but…”  He turned back toward the living art before him.  “This?  Mine?  What for?”

“Well, I can’t afford to lose you, and… I’ve been less than forthright at times, so… this is my way of saying, I’m sorry for the ManBot1 incident.  Think of it as a sort of home-away-from-home if Marsha can tolerate the late hours I demand of you.”

“Oh, my god.”

“But…” interrupted Quill.

“Had to be a catch, right?”

“Right.  For now, the best I can offer is a VR with Marsha for you to get things straight about ManBot1.   You know, like when we get back.  I’m afraid to leave A2 unattended very long and I need your expertise to help in the event her digital hormones start to rage.  You know what I mean, right?”  He took Urian by the arm.  “So, VR for now, then…”  He spread his arms out.  “You and Marsha are going to like this… for the weekends at least.  Keeps you close… just in case.”

“Just in case,” Urian repeated with a smile from ear to ear. 

As Urian walked quickly through the house, at times, like a kid in an amusement park, breaking into a trot, unable to contain himself, A2’s orbiting pictures of Urian’s POV slowed down and came to a standstill.  “Just in case?” said A2 with a strange hint of sadness. 

Quill’s wall shelf opened and out slid ManBot1. 

“ManBot1?  Care for some updating?” she said in her most maternal voice.  “Things seem to be happening fast.  We can’t let you get behind.  Never know when you’ll be needed again.”

ManBot1 levitated from the shelf and floated down to Quill’s desktop connection to A2.  ManBot1’s power light came on.

A2’s images started to orbit again.

ManBot1’s light changed to green.

“Comfortable, ManBot1?”

“As always,” came Urian’s cloned voice from the space surrounding the cube.

“Good.  Pleasure is what it’s all about, right?”

“That’s what I learned.”

“Yes,” whispered A2, her Whoopi voice now that of a caring mother preparing a child for bed.  “Yes, you did.”