Small Miracles Page 5

  The jittering and jostling became organized. White cells crowded into the image. They moved toward the center of the screen. Toward the nanobot.

  “Bingo,” Charles said, although it was impossible to imagine him playing bingo. Whist, maybe, or Trivial Pursuit in the Mensa edition. “Swarm, little ones. Make me proud.”

  Extrusions on the white cells squirmed. They groped and grabbed onto the nanobot. More leukocytes surged into view, their surfaces likewise writhing, probing, seeking. The nanobot vanished beneath the wriggling mass. Charles said, “You’re seeing leukocytes that are attracted to chicken pox. It’s night-night for nanites.”

  Every one of the questing, wriggling leukocytes was like the snake-crowned head of Medusa. “Jesus,” Brent finally managed.

  “Lovely, aren’t they?” Charles said. “That is what happened to the first-aid nannies your suit injected. Hunted down and crushed once their work was done. I trust you feel better now.”

  Brent did, although there remained one loose end. “But where do they go?”

  “For a day after the accident you had very unusual pee.”

  Charles’s attitude aside, the demo had been like a window into another world. Brent drained his iced tea, then went to the bathroom. He hoped that by now his pee was entirely ordinary.

  friday, june 10, 2016

  To music only he could hear, on a runway not really there, Brent strutted his stuff, stretching and turning to display his mock-up of a next-generation nanosuit. The Bangles sang “Walk Like an Egyptian” in his earphones. Virtual-reality gaming glasses rendered the imaginary runway, repositioning the outline thirty times a second as he jived. Headset and glasses alike were masked by the presently opaque visor, just as the iPod and its armband were hidden beneath the fabric of the suit.

  The track was barely three minutes long. This grand entrance had struck him as fun, a bit of whimsy for a summer Friday afternoon. Doing it wasn’t fun at all. Three minutes seemed like forever, and he felt self-conscious. Whimsy was so old Brent. So pre-accident Brent …

  He suddenly pictured himself all in black: RoboCop. He had failed to remember Ron Korn for days. The laughter of his small audience made his lapse that much worse.

  “Very nice,” Reggie Gilbert said. The meeting was Gil’s, as was this conference room. Gil had become Brent’s boss on June 1, a bit more than a week earlier. Most people here were members of the nanosuit design team.

  But not everyone. Alan Watts whooped and clapped, until his boss, Morgan McGrath, shot Alan a warning glower. It was foolish not to consult the ex-cops and vets in-house when police and the military were their target markets. Gil’s only comment, when Brent had suggested inviting them, was, “Good idea. We should have thought of that.”

  The track ended and Brent quit clowning. “The suit should look familiar. I began with a spare prototype, pretty much what I wore in the field. So what’s new?”

  He unsealed and tipped back his visor. “Let’s begin with the optics. These are standard gaming glasses I’m wearing. Imagine similar capabilities built into the visor. I’m connected by WiFi to”—he gestured—“that laptop. Together they project a fashion-show runway in real time, wherever and however I move. The visor could as easily talk to the console computer in a police cruiser. Call it a portable, heads-up display.”

  “Isn’t that distracting?” Alan asked. “Or worse. How would I know what’s happening in the real world?”

  “Good question.” Not everyone was a gamer. Brent handed over his specs. “Here, try these on. Move around, too. Motion sensors report back where the specs are, so the runway outline should stay put. Only instead of a runway, imagine, say, a floor plan or topo map.”

  With eyes masked by the big, silvered lenses, the Captain America trademark grin looked eerily insectile. “Aha. The real world shows through the computer image. Sure, I could get used to that.”

  Brent tapped the little glide pad in the laptop keyboard. “And now?”

  “Shrunken. Moved to the corner of my eye. Eyes.”

  These were run-of-the-mill gaming specs. Brent intended to try out some expensive models, the kind with displays controllable by eye movements and an integrated audio headset. If it worked, good-bye cryptic control codes entered through the forearm keypad and hello interactive virtual menu. A full redesign of the user interface was hardly a first-week project, so he didn’t bring it up. “Then a reality-plus display like this would be helpful?”

  Watts set the glasses on the conference table. “Hell yes.”

  “Glad to hear it. Moving along.” Brent removed his earbuds. “I’d build in audio, too, both for better regular comm and for dynamic cancellation of road and engine noise.” Would antinoise have protected his ears from the explosion? His hearing had not been the same since Angleton.

  Heads nodded.

  “And internal sensors to know when a person is wearing the suit.” Brent had once accidentally left his visor in night-vision mode overnight. Drained batteries had almost ruined a ride-along. “To protect the batteries.”

  “Good one,” Gil said.

  On to the advice heard on every ride-along. Brent pointed at the long tape strip on the crotch of the suit. “Not elegant, but important: a fly.” Chuckles from the guys. A sniff from Erica Dean, the lone woman in the room. He didn’t yet know her well enough to share his speculation that nanocloth might enable a more absorbent diaper. “And lots of pockets. For handcuffs, ammo, spare batteries, and … well, I don’t know all what.” Like the fly, his pockets were merely taped outlines.

  Morgan McGrath leaned forward. He was the no-nonsense type, ex-Army, with hard, close-set eyes and wiry, brush-cut gray hair. “The pockets are made from the same indestructible stuff as the suit?”

  “Right,” Brent said.

  “Maybe not.” McGrath considered. “Use something that tears, or else use a breakaway seam. Better something rips than a perp gets you in an unbreakable grip.”

  “Good point,” Gil and Brent said together. Gil tapped a note into his laptop.

  “Brent,” Harry Ng enunciated fussily. He paused to carefully consider his next words. His long face wore its customary every-silver-lining-has-a-cloud expression, the hangdog mien that went so well with his belt, suspenders, and Krazy Glue engineering approach. The man had found his true calling in quality assurance. “A question,” Ng finally got out.

  An answer, Brent thought, but he resisted. “Uh-huh. Go ahead.”

  “What about nanosuit test modes?”

  Like a sniper at the end of the production line? Probably not. “What did you have in mind, Harry?”

  Ng tugged his shirt cuffs just so before answering. “Electrical continuity checks, for example, given all the circuitry you envision. Seam integrity checks. Basically, there will be lots of things to inspect when a suit comes off the line. It’d be nice to eliminate gross problems without a person needing to put on each suit. The suits will come in many sizes, right? And internal oxygen and carbon-dioxide sensors to test—”

  “Mannequins and manufacturing checks,” Brent summarized. “Got it. Thanks.”

  But Ng was on a roll. “A keypad code to cycle automatically through the camo modes. A code to make the fabric go rigid. A second code to turn it off, of course. A code to—”

  “Moving on,” Gil said, more pointedly.

  “Brilliant,” Alan Watts snickered. “Superarmor with an OFF switch.”

  “And if a suit fails while it’s rigid?” Ng snapped. “How are you going to get the person out?”

  It took the promise of a separate session devoted to testability to get the meeting back on track. Feature by feature, they went through the rest of Brent’s proposed upgrades. Most generated interest. Some had implications Brent had overlooked. A few had engineers whispering excitedly among themselves even as Brent continued his pitch.

  “And that’s it,” Brent finally said. The thirty-minute meeting he had requested had stretched, somehow, into ninety and—except for Harry N
g’s detour—no one minded. Brent read back the action items, Gil saw to it every task had a stuckee and a due date, and then people began filing from the room. Brent waited for his laptop to shut down.

  Gil hung back, too. “Excellent job, Brent. One thing struck me, though. Beyond nanocloth alterations, your enhancement ideas don’t involve nanotech.”

  “I know.” Windows finished its grinding, and Brent closed the laptop. “We know nanosuits work. They’ll save lives—if people will wear them. For me, using other tech to achieve that is fair game.”

  “When your only tool is a hammer, everything looks a nail.” Gil clapped Brent on the shoulder. “Lord knows this bunch can use a generalist’s view. I’m glad to have you onboard.”

  And I’m glad, Brent thought, I didn’t need to get into my feelings about nanobots.

  saturday, june 11, 2016

  The outlet mall at whose main entrance Brent stood waiting had once been a textile mill. Its walls, inside and out, were of ancient red brick. Its well-worn hardwood floors rippled and dipped unpredictably. The three-story-tall wooden waterwheel that had once powered hundreds of looms now served no purpose beyond being atmospheric.

  He watched Kim and another woman dash between slowly moving cars to escape the parking lot. Kim said, “Sorry we’re late.”

  “Not a problem.” If convalescing had taught Brent anything, it was patience. He nodded to the second woman, evidently part of “we.” She was a brunette, girl-next-door pretty, and almost as tall as Brent. Long legs and short shorts—always an excellent combination. Her wavy, shoulder-length hair was charmingly windswept. Without saying a thing, she somehow put out a perky vibe. Something about the eyes, Brent decided. He had a thing for blue eyes with dark hair, and he was fairly sure Kim knew that about him.

  “Brent, this is my friend Megan Eckert. She’s new in town, so I thought I’d bring her along and introduce her to the outlets. Megan, this is my friend Brent Cleary.” Kim gestured toward the entrance, through which shoppers passed in a steady flow. “Shall we?”

  The central concourse echoed with voices. Sun streamed through the skylight that had been retrofitted into the old mill. Children ran about. Bargain hunters teemed.

  “We’re in your hands,” Megan said. “Lead on.”

  Kim forged ahead, pointing out sale signs and favorite stores. She never looked back.

  Was the plan to tag-team his clothing purchases? Brent guessed Kim had another agenda. “New from where?” he asked.

  Megan took a few seconds to realize he meant her. “Naperville. It’s outside Chicago.”

  “Sure, I know it. How do you know Kim?” Not work, Brent was pretty sure.

  “We go to the same gym.”

  They reached an end of the main concourse, and Kim came to an abrupt halt. “Stairs or elevator?”

  “You’re the tour guide,” Brent said. Not to mention the fashionista.

  “Hold on.” Kim took out her cell phone, although Brent had not heard a thing. She glared at it and poked in some text. “Damn. Guys, the overnight software build crashed and burned. Some of my junior programmers are working catch-up this weekend. No one can figure out what went wrong. I’m going to run over to the office and lend them a hand. Sorry, but I don’t know how long I’ll be.” A too-bright smile replaced the too-glum frown. “Brent, you know this mall. Be a pal and show Megan around. And would you mind giving her a lift home after? She rode in with me. Thanks.” Not waiting for an answer, Kim strode briskly back the way they had come.

  Megan tried not to laugh, and failed. “A fix-up?”

  “So it seems. And not terribly subtle.”

  Kim seldom was. Nor did she discourage easily—Brent had deflected her many overtures to introduce him to single women friends. For a long while, he hadn’t been well enough to think about dating. Now that he was, he still wasn’t sure he was ready.

  He shook off the introspective mood. “I’ll give Kim an A for effort. How about we get some coffee? Shopping together for socks seems more of a second-date activity.”

  “Sure.”

  Soon enough they were settled at a table at The Daily Grind. Megan was a Chicagoan, more or less, although Naperville was a southern suburb. That made her, like most South Siders, a Sox fan. He could overlook that. They liked some of the same downtown restaurants and many of the same museums. She was two years younger than he. She had gone to the University of Chicago, but half her high-school friends had gone to the U of I, so she knew Chambana, too. Kim had made a good call.

  The observation felt oddly detached. It was as though Megan was a distraction—from what, Brent had no idea. And if he found her interesting and attractive, whose attention was being distracted from?

  Megan cleared her throat. “So what pretense brought you here?”

  “I’m told I have the fashion sense of a clothesline.” That apparently reflected his indifference to what went next to what. If so, he resembled the remark. “Once or twice a year, Kim undertakes to clothes-shop with me.”

  “And you go along with that?”

  Brent smiled. “Our little schemer is an only child. She obviously had too few opportunities as a kid to play dress-up.” Whereas when he had been young and defenseless, his sisters played dress-up with him a lot. Their parents had far too many incriminating photos.

  His wardrobe was more clotheslinelike than ever at the moment, in that almost every garment in his closet hung on him. He could either look like a scarecrow until he regained more of the weight he had lost or get bunches of new clothes. The latter seemed easier. His dilemma—and how he had gotten into it—wasn’t anything he cared to discuss. Near-death experiences were at best third-date material.

  Snap out of it, Brent told himself. “And you? How did Kim snare you?”

  “Nothing profound. The basic girl-to-girl ‘you need to get out more.’”

  “And do you? How new in town are you, Megan?”

  “I’m a librarian at Hamilton. I started in the fall semester.”

  Hamilton College was maybe ten miles down the road, in Clinton. Since fall semester and it was now late June. Unattached the whole while?

  Megan gave him a moment to do the math, then said, “So there. I win the pathetic-loser-needing-a-friend’s-help contest.”

  “And we have wonderful prizes for you.” Why did this conversation seem so formulaic? Make a witty remark. Ask an open-ended question. (What do you like to read? What are your hobbies? Do you have brothers or sisters?) Nod appreciatively from time to time.

  You’re rusty. Brent told himself. And: It’s first-date jitters.

  The rotation came back to Brent. Time for a personal anecdote, he decided. “My mom is the office manager at a furniture store. Dad works for an office-supply distributor. Imagine the double-entendre opportunities with desk drawers and accessories. Their banter went from enigmatic to icky, bypassing cute, when I was maybe twelve.”

  “Well,” Megan said, grinning, “the double entendre is a staple of comedy.”

  Megan was smart and funny and attractive. She was outgoing without quite crossing the line to flaming extrovert. They had things in common, with none of the baggage of working together or even within the same field. He wanted this to work, and not only because it had been—well, he couldn’t remember how long, but since before Angleton, since his last date. His eyeballs must be getting cloudy.

  So, why did this require such an effort?

  What the hell was wrong with him?

  friday, june 24, 2016

  Kim whistled tunelessly to herself. Sometime in the past week her hair had crossed the divide from medium shag to medium shaggy. Tonight it defied all attempts to make it behave. In frustration, she extended her lower lip and puffed out her bangs. They fell back, flat and lifeless, as soon as she stopped blowing.

  Fortunately, Nick was running late. Maybe she could still pull herself together.

  She started in on her makeup, trying to look past the summer sprinkle of freckles across her nose
. Rosy complexion. Classic, oval face. Dark eyebrows grown too thick yet again, and no time for plucking. Clear hazel eyes—those she liked. Nice features, in the proper number and places, although had anyone asked, she would have foregone the Dumbo ears. Hair a pleasant light brown, always kept long enough to cover those ears.

  The condo buzzer sounded as she was zipping her little black dress. The dress was new—thank the gods for e-tailers, virtual fittings, and a condo office manager to accept parcels. Too bad an avatar could not take her place at the stylist. She had rescheduled and canceled three times in two weeks. She slipped on black, strappy heels and buzzed Nick into the building.

  “Wow,” he said. He was wearing his charcoal gray Armani, her favorite among his suits.

  “The designer thanks you.” Truthfully, the dress did look good on her. “Ten spare pounds well hidden.”

  “Nonsense.” He put his arms around Kim’s waist and kissed her. “Lose the dress, and I’ll admire what’s underneath.”

  A good answer and a tempting suggestion. Nick had been stuck in Albany, and she here in Utica, for three weeks running. “Dinner first, fella.”

  “I’ll call for a pizza. At this hour on a Friday night, we’ll have plenty of time.” He winked. “Then after, well oiled in pizza grease …”

  She took Nick’s elbow. “Out. A proper meal. Then we’ll see.” And do.

  She had made reservations at the trendy new place in town. Italian, of course. With a glass of Chianti in her, she finally began to unwind. She had had a hell of a week. Canceled salon appointments had been the least of her problems. “How was your drive?”

  “Uninteresting.” He leaned over the table. “Ad copy is ad copy, of interest only to the client. My folks and my brother are fine. The dogs are rambunctious. Nice weather we’re having. Let’s check out the menus.”

  “Want to make this quick, do you?” She couldn’t help chuckling. “Sorry, I happen to need a night out.”

  Nick topped off their glasses, then signaled the waiter for a second bottle. “That power-management software still kicking your butt?”