Blueprints of the afterl.., p.11
Blueprints of the Afterlife, page 11
“Right, so that’s basically where the Bionet started. For years people chipped their dogs and cats so if they ran off the Humane Society could scan them and get an address and a phone number. That was the beginning, pretty much. Then when the baby boomers started going into retirement homes, a few of them got chipped with files including their whole medical histories. Better than wearing a bracelet with all that info engraved on it. Then the next wave of innovation went down and these implants, still incredibly crude by today’s standards, got networked using the rudimentary Wi-Fi and Internet of the day. Pretty easy to monitor heart rate and transmit the data via the Web. Then, like you said, all this GPS-enabled, vitals-monitoring software went into the implants and now you can get hit by a truck and two seconds later your body calls an ambulance for you. The Bionet’s saved lives. That’s why I wanted to get into it in the first place. Now we can download hormones, enzymes, and antigens remotely through implants and upload our immunities for other people to share.”
“What’s that have to do with you knowing about Bicycle Thieves?”
“We’re on to the next stage, Bionet 2.0. Neurology. The development of this stuff hasn’t been all that smooth. For years we’ve stuck these implants in volunteers’ heads that make them hear voices in other languages, pick up phone transmissions, radio stations. We’ve been trying to wire the frontal lobes into the Internet so everyone can eventually become their own Wikipedia or, rather, share the Wikipedia with others who are logged in. The software itself has improved by several orders of magnitude, for sure, but for the past ten years or so the industry has been driving test subjects crazy, paying out huge lawsuits. It’s been a disaster.
“Three, four years ago a group of neuroscientists and Bioneticists at the University of Montreal published a paper that changed everyone’s thinking about neural implants. They proposed that the problems we were seeing in clinical trials weren’t all that related to the implants themselves, but to the parts of the brain we were seeking to integrate with. Rather than trying to plug those implants into the parts of the brain that produce consciousness, we needed to start plugging them into the parts of the brain that produce subconsciousness. And this makes a lot of sense for two reasons. One, the subconscious is built to process a shitload of information, a quantity that overloads the conscious mind. It doles out information judiciously into our conscious thoughts. Second, Jung believed that the individual subconscious tapped into a level of consciousness all living beings shared, the collective unconscious. And one cool way to think of the collective unconscious is as a giant, biological Internet.”
“So you plugged the real Internet into the subconscious Internet?”
“We’re trying to. Instead of plugging these implants into people’s heads that just scream trivia at them 24/7, we’re finding that these subconscious implants work far more mysteriously than we imagined. You know that feeling when you can’t remember a word? When you say you feel there’s something on the tip of your tongue? That’s what this implant feels like all the time. Like there’s always information just behind the screen waiting to burst out but the subconscious is acting in your best interest to hold it back. So tonight, when you said Bicycle Thieves, my implant probably did a quick search of IMDb, then served up that little summary for me.”
“That feeling, though, doesn’t it drive you nuts?”
“I’m learning to manage it. And my implant is only turned on a few hours a day. Started out just a minute or two a day at first, and even at that level it left me exhausted. I got these hellish nightmares. My subconscious had to learn how to use this new tool, this piece of hardware thrust like a space probe into my skull. You can imagine, after millions of years of evolution, suddenly the mind has to deal with this weird little sesame-seed-sized thing that shows up in the cranium. And you’re right, I’d go crazy if I walked around all day feeling like I’d just forgotten what I was going to say.” Rocco paused, but not like he was listening to a distant signal. More like he was listening to something that only came from within himself. “I like you, Abby.”
How romantically science fictiony this all was! Abby leaned in to kiss him.
Abby confronted Kylee as she jerked along through the great hall in an antique-looking electric wheelchair that smelled of burning lubricant.
“Either I see the archives or I’m leaving,” Abby said.
Kylee bumbled into one of the phantasy-art-lined passages. “That would be a shame. You at least have to stick around to see the musical we’re producing in your honor.”
“If there isn’t work for me to do I’ll get out of your way and head home to Vancouver.”
A great bell clanged somewhere on the property. Kylee quickly wheeled herself to the nearest elevator. Federicos rushed through the house, assembling on a balcony overlooking the harbour. Abby pushed her way to the front and saw a squat little freighter pull up to the pier. The captain, a bronzed man in a red-striped shirt and captain’s hat, waved up to the spectators as six Federicos rushed to help unload crates of supplies. There emerged a young nurse carrying a bundle in her arms—the newest Federico. A cheer went up, hugs all around. Accompanied by Federicos beside themselves with excitement, the nurse strode the length of the pier and ascended the steep path to the house with the infant Federico in her arms. When she came to the balcony she handed the baby to Kylee, who quivered in her wheelchair, suppressing tears. The pop star pulled the blanket away from the baby’s face and said, “Oh, my heavens, he’s the most precious baby I have ever seen.” The other Federicos elbowed one another to get a better look, oohing over Federico #631, freshly expelled from the womb of a desperate third-world woman. Once the nurse and the boat departed, and after a few seconds of tickling and cooing, Kylee handed the baby over to one of the Federicos in charge of childcare and wiped her hands on her shawl. “That one seemed a bit underbaked,” she said. “A rush job. We’ll see how he grows. Disperse, everyone. Off to your stupid, like, responsibilities and shit.”
Alone with Kylee, Abby watched the ship disappear on the horizon as a procession of Federicos hauled the supplies to the house. A breeze lifted some strands of hair from Abby’s face and laid them across her shoulder.
“There are no archives,” Abby said.
“True, but I was going to show you what’s left of them. Ready?”
The domed solarium, three stories of steel and glass, was by far the most meticulously maintained wing of the Seaside Love Palace. A hundred species of butterflies colored trees, vines, and blossoms of endangered flora. The thick, peaty air smelled ripe with the sweet scent of decay. A tiled trail led through the foliage to a room-sized peninsula encircled by a crescent-shaped koi pond. When Kylee, Abby, and a Federico arrived at the pond they found a table set for afternoon tea and an ancient man napping in a wheelchair. That he wasn’t actually a corpse astonished Abby. Rare species of moths alighted on his shoulders.
The young Federico poured tea for the group while Kylee shouted at the old man, “Wake up! Wake up, you old queen!” After a minute of this the ancient man began to stir, opening an eye a crack.
“You don’t have to wake him for me,” Abby said.
“Oh, but I do,” Kylee said. “You wanted to see the archives, didn’t you?”
“This is your archivist?”
“No, young thing. This isn’t the archivist. This is the archive. This is Federico #1.”
Abby looked puzzled.
“Ask him something,” Kylee continued. “His brain is a server. You have to put your ear close to his mouth, though. He can only whisper. And you have to shout your question.”
Abby knelt beside the source of all Federicos. “What was Errol Flynn’s first starring role?” she asked.
“Louder, honey,” Kylee said.
“What was Errol Flynn’s first starring role!”
Federico #1’s mouth began to move, just a subtle tremor of the lips and a slight breeze of rank air rising from his throat to indicate words were about to be formulated. “Captain Blood, 1935,” he whispered.
“I thought I was here to recover digital data,” Abby said. “How am I supposed to know what’s lost if it’s all stored in this man’s head?”
“They said you were the best,” Kylee snickered.
“I retrieve digital content, not memories. How am I supposed to figure out what was lost?”
The archives went back to sleep. Kylee shrugged and scooted away, chuckling, with the younger Federico in tow, leaving Abby and #1 alone. Abby checked the level on her recorder then shouted into the archive’s ear, “Recite the Luke Piper transcript!”
After a moment of silence the archive’s lips began to move. Abby positioned her microphone and turned up the volume, listening through the ear buds. “… the tape roll a bit here before we get… Luke? You need anything, Luke? No, I’m fine. I thought we could first talk…” the archive began. Hours vanished into the story of Luke’s search for Mr. Kirkpatrick. Why anyone would go through the trouble to send her here to record this tale was beyond her. She turned the recorder off when it was clear the transcript was complete, then rose to leave. The old Federico grabbed her wrist and trained his gummy eyes on her. “You aren’t the person you think you are,” he said, his voice rising barely above a whisper.
“Let go of me.”
“You’re in superposition.”
A young Federico appeared and removed Abby’s arm from Federico #1’s grip. “Now, now, #1,” he said. “Let’s not traumatize our guest.”
As he was wheeled away, Federico #1 shook his finger at Abby. “You’re somebody else entirely.”
On the stage, gradually brightening footlights brought an abstract cityscape into view. A light burned in the window of an apartment tower where a Federico in a black wig sat drinking tea, clicking on a laptop. Another Federico wearing fake stubble appeared beside the wigged Federico and rubbed his shoulder. Abby, sitting in the balcony beside Kylee, realized these actors were supposed to represent Rocco and herself.
ROCCO
What are you doing, sweetheart?
ABBY (sighing)
Looking for a job. I sure wish there was a better market for a digital-media restorer!
ROCCO
Hey, you’ll find something soon. Don’t give up. Which reminds me. I got this phone call last night from some guy named Dirk Bickle. He wanted to talk to you about an opportunity.
ABBY
Well, why didn’t you say so?
The stage Abby leaped to her feet and grabbed a jacket and hat, then pranced down from the skyscraper to center stage, where a grey-haired Federico in dark sunglasses rose from a café table.
DIRK
Nice to meet you, Abby. My name is Dirk Bickle and have I got an opportunity for you. To Victoria! Posthaste! To recover a bunch of archives and jazz like that!
Dirk hustled Abby onto a cardboard boat that glided along behind rolling, saw-toothed stage waves. A couple of anthropomorphized clouds with Dizzy Gillespie cheeks descended from the rafters while offstage a Foley artist faked the sounds of waves, wind, and thunder with sheets of metal and hand-cranked barrels of rice.
ABBY
Wait! What am I actually supposed to do?
The boat came to rest, stage right, in front of the art director’s baroque vision of the Seaside Love Palace. Abby belted a couplet.
ABBY
I feel so alone, so lost and confused.
I certainly hope I don’t get abused!
The front doors popped open and out pranced two younger Federicos playing the older Federicos who’d greeted Abby upon her arrival a few days prior. They hurriedly dressed the stage Abby in the bunny outfit as stage elements rolled into new configurations, forming a mirror-image version of the auditorium they now occupied. Her back to the real audience, the Abby onstage addressed a painted backdrop of faces as a staticky, poorly recorded laugh track guffawed.
ABBY
You’ve got me mistaken for someone else! I’m here to see the archives!
After which she collapsed, was dragged stage left by a Federico, and dumped on a bed on rollers. Ominous music! From the rafters, on wires, descended a Federico made up corpse-like, costumed in billowing white organza.
ISAAC
Hey, baby. Show me a little skin.
Stage Abby woke with a start.
ABBY
Who are you? What is this place?
ISAAC
I’ll tell you all the secrets of the Seaside Love Palace if you flash me a nip.
There followed an industrial-metal number in which the ghost of Isaac Pope, joined by the ghosts of other dot-com CEOs, sang about rounds of financing, server farms, and the importance of accepting cookies and clearing one’s cache when encountering a technical problem. Then, with barely a transition, stage Abby sang a duet with a Federico costumed as Kylee, to the great amusement of the audience. There was a death scene with the suicidal Federico, who took his life via this house’s preferred method of Red Bull/Mountain Dew OD. There were several Kylee costume changes. It seemed to the spectator Abby, shocked at watching events of her own recent experiences poorly dramatized, that the dramaturge had run out of time and lost control of the mise-en-scène, resorting to cramming scenes together with little transitional tissue. Unpracticed players blew lines and missed cues. The orgy sequence erupted in a chaotic whirl of puppetry and full-body nude-colored suits. There was the arrival of the baby Federico—all of it hurried, half-assed, blurry with a score that couldn’t figure out what time signature it wanted to be in. Then came the scene that had happened little more than an hour before, with a Federico playing the wheelchair-confined archive whispering the transcript into a microphone. Federico-as-Kylee appeared and summoned her to the theater. A chaotic reshuffling of scenery later, Abby now watched her avatar watching a puppet version of the performance she had just seen. The same meeting with Bickle, the boat ride, the dressing up as a bunny, ghostly visitations, dance numbers, etc., except at half the previous scale. In this iteration even more lines were blown, even more cues missed, even more dramatic corners cut, the action sped up to an amphetamine hum as the Federicos in the orchestra pit sawed madly at their stringed instruments, everything faster, miniaturized, coming to the point in the story again when the puppet version of Kylee summoned Abby to the theater, upon which an even smaller puppet theater appeared within the first puppet theater. Abby could barely make out the little figures dancing within. Finally, the spectator version of Abby, overcome with nausea, turned to Kylee and asked, “How do I make it stop?”
“It’s easy, young thing,” Kylee smiled, snapping her fingers. “You wake up in a field.”
Q&A WITH LUKE PIPER, PART 2
How you feeling this morning, Luke?
I’m okay. Ready.
When we last spoke we ended with your discovery of Nick’s father’s shop.
That was the summer after I graduated from high school. I was supposed to go to college in the fall but decided against it. I was still living in the VW van in the muddy yard outside Star and Nick’s shack. I used a little camp stove to make oatmeal and boil water for ramen. After I discovered the contents of the shed, I spent hours in there looking over the blueprints Nick’s dad left behind. And I decided to start cleaning the place up. I took the seats out of the van and made trips to the dump, hauling away all the garbage that had accumulated around the property. I cleared brush, swept out the shed, and cleaned the tools. With some of my life insurance money I bought a few tons of gravel and had it poured down the driveway and on the muddy ground outside the house. It became a full-time job, maintaining that place.
What was Nick doing when you—
He decided to call Dirk Bickle. He’d saved the card from the science fair. Since they didn’t have a phone, Nick walked to a gas station one day and called the guy on a pay phone. Apparently Bickle told him a car would show up for him the following week and they’d put him on a plane to the Bay Area. He’d live on a campus, get all meals and expenses paid, and pull in a salary of $30,000 a year. This blew our minds. It was a lot of money at the time. All Nick had to do was come up with new inventions.
What was the organization called?
We didn’t know at that point. They said Nick had to commit before they really told him anything of substance. That afternoon after the call Nick walked up the driveway in a daze. I was chopping wood and I stopped and asked what had happened. He told me about the conversation and looked at me sort of embarrassed. Of course I was happy for him, we celebrated with a bottle of wine, but part of me couldn’t help noting how much our fortunes had reversed. Just a few months before I had been the kid bound for college and success and he’d been the one with no future. Nick made up his mind, he had to see where these shadows and secrets led. And I think, too—this is just my theory—that he looked at what his old man had been trying to accomplish—some kind of crazy speculative civil-engineering project—and realized that his dad had never had the chance to develop it to the fullest. Now Nick could pick up where he had left off. What were Nick’s prospects? He could have stuck around Bainbridge and worked at McDonald’s. He could have moved to Seattle and become a street punk. He hadn’t even bothered applying to colleges. He left himself with the options of a life of poverty or plunging into something cool and mysterious. Who wouldn’t have made the same decision?
So a week passed and sure enough here came a taxi, rolling up to that little shack. Bickle climbed out, walked across the yard, knocked on the door. Star asked that she speak to him and Nick together, alone, so I went out to my van and probably buried my nose in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. About an hour and a half later, they came out. Star had been crying. Nick carried a duffel bag, that was it. I hugged him for a long time. He pulled me in tight and said I was a brother to him. Then he got in the cab and left.
