Small Miracles Page 9

  “Charles, I have a question for you. It’s about the nanobots injected into Brent Cleary.”

  “Obsolete,” Charles said absently. “Good enough to save his life, though.”

  The wind picked up for a moment, stirring her hair and sending a dust devil of sere leaves across the asphalt. She waited until the breeze died down. “Here’s the thing, Charles. Brent just isn’t the same guy.”

  “Yeah, now he has that whole adamant thing going. It doesn’t work for anyone.”

  Adamant? Adam Ant? Brent and retro-punk didn’t mix.

  Aha. “Atom Ant. I agree, Charles. I could do without the VR specs, too. The point isn’t that Brent looks different. He acts different.”

  Rub, rub. “Kim, I know Brent is your friend, but let’s be honest. He was hardly setting the world on fire. So the accident, or a few months laid up, made him take stock. Made him get a bit more serious about his career. Is that so bad?”

  Focus was fine, but why had Brent become so remote? Kim hesitated, unsure how to ask. Charles came from old money and boarding schools. He was on the reserved side.

  A long-suffering sigh. Charles said, “What’s this have to do with the nanobots?”

  “Is it … possible some of the bots are still in Brent?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Charles ceased buffing to glower at her. “First-aid nanobots do exactly one thing. They follow chemical biomarkers to internal injuries and precisely apply coagulant while their supply lasts. So a few bots left behind in him wouldn’t harm a thing.

  “But suppose, somehow, bots could have another effect. Suppose a few critters made it through production without getting their antigen treatment. They still, sooner rather than later, get filtered out by the liver.” Rub, rub. “We call it hepatic clearance.”

  The royal “we” pissed Kim off. “So it’s impossible, huh? You’re sure, without any testing.”

  Charles finally got out of his crouch to loom over her. “Ms. O’Donnell, we tested Brent’s blood. We tested his urine. At the sensitivity of chemical tests, neither fluid showed any trace of residual bots.”

  “There must be something else,” she said. “An MRI, maybe?”

  Charles stowed the chamois cloth and spray bottle, and then, with feeling, slammed shut the trunk. “An MRI, you say? Then maybe a PET scan? A CAT scan? Because none of those mechanisms can see individual cells, let alone nanobots. Any other suggestions, Doctor?”

  The sarcasm stung, but Kim persisted. “How do you explain the change in Brent’s behavior?”

  Charles jerked open the driver’s door. “I don’t see that I have to.”

  She stood in the parking lot, confused and angry, long after Charles had driven away.

  * * *

  Brent studied the mound of chips at center table, then his hand, then the pot again. Only he and Manny Escobar were still in. “Fold,” Brent finally said, tossing down his cards.

  With a chuckle, Manny turned over and spread his cards: a full house. He raked in the pile of chips. “I knew you were bluffing, Cleary.” He had a gravelly voice.

  Brent shrugged. “Any more beer to be had?” he called out.

  “Coming up,” Morgan McGrath answered from the kitchen. He had folded early in the last hand. It was Morgan’s turn to host Security’s more-or-less weekly poker night. After throwing in his cards, he had gone to replenish the snacks. “So are you drowning your sorrows, Brent?”

  More like watering his generosity. Brent had had a straight flush. It was the third winning hand he had tossed in, unrevealed, that evening. Tonight was Brent’s first invitation to the game. He had a theory: good losers are invited back. For some reason, he felt the need to cultivate these new friends. Odd, when maintaining old friendships had become such a chore.

  Tonight’s game involved four of the plant guards, including McGrath, the head of Security. And Brent. Brent’s goal was to finish down sixty or seventy bucks for the night. A worthwhile investment, he thought.

  No one needed to know. Brent slid back his chair. He resisted the urge to put on the VR specs. They would reflect the cards in his next hand.

  It was a sad little room in a sad little bachelor pad, or it would have been sad if Brent were still capable of empathy. The apartment gave no sign of the ex-wife; the marriage had not made it through a second deployment to Iraq.

  Being severed from the Internet made Brent twitchy. That was why he wanted another beer—and his specs, damn it. “Yeah, Morgan. I’ll be right there and help myself.”

  “Stop!” Ethan Liu shouted.

  Laughter, from Manny and Alan Watts. Brent froze, balancing on one foot. “What?”

  “You almost stepped on Robby,” Ethan said.

  A Roomba scuttled past, noisily swallowing taco-chip pieces. The little robotic vacuum cleaner spun and veered as it contacted a poker-table leg.

  “Robby the Robot,” Brent said. “Got it.”

  “You hurt Robby and you have the captain to answer to,” Ethan said. “Me, too, for that matter.”

  The captain. Ethan Liu had served under McGrath in Iraq, Brent did not know how many years ago, first sergeant to McGrath’s captain. Brent had no trouble imagining Ethan throwing himself on a grenade for McGrath—even today. Morgan was a big guy, broad shouldered and maybe six-two, fiftyish but fit. Ethan made his captain look frail. Massive and humorless, Ethan could snap Brent like a twig.

  Robby’s new course had it also headed for the kitchen. Brent made a grandiloquent gesture. “After you, Robby.” The Roomba preceded him into the kitchen and began paralleling the under-cabinet kick plate.

  The fridge held ample cold ones. Brent removed one and twisted off the cap. “So what’s with the Robot Fan Club?” he asked.

  “IEDs.” Morgan was pouring more salsa into a bowl. “Improvised explosive devices.”

  Did anyone not know what an IED was? They accounted for more than half the NATO deaths across the Middle East, and had for years. “Uh-huh,” Brent said.

  “Improvised from any old artillery shell or bomb, or from common chemicals,” Morgan went on. “That we could handle. The bad news is that any old cell phone, RC toy, pager, or walkie-talkie makes a dandy remote detonator. The really bad news is that the directions to build IEDs are on thousands of websites: tutorials for terrorists. Put it all together, and you get weapons so cheap and easy any bozo can make them, and take out—” Morgan froze. “Sorry. Bad memories.”

  “And robots are the answer?” Brent guessed.

  “Finding the bastards is the answer, but counterinsurgency is the hardest part of the job.” Morgan got a beer and took a long swallow. “Failing that, you want to find the bombs. We used robots to scout ahead. It’s far better to lose a robot than a Humvee or tank full of people, but the robots get expensive, too. And robots are slow, so you lose mobility.

  “When the bad guys are smart enough—and trust me, some are—they get onto the radio link and hack into the bots. It’s a simple enough thing to tell a robot not to report what it finds. And sometimes robots are their answer, when they run out of crazies to be suicide bombers.”

  “Deal you two in?” Alan Watts shouted from the next room.

  “Yeah. Be there in a sec.” Morgan handed Brent a bowl of taco chips and took the salsa bowl himself. “The company that makes vacuum bots also makes minesweeper bots. Those guys saved the lives of a lot of folks under my command.”

  “Nanosuits could make a big difference,” Brent said. He followed Morgan from the kitchen.

  “Yeah.” Morgan set down the salsa, took his seat, and picked up his cards. “Yeah, you rocket scientists are doing a good thing. Don’t screw it up.”

  Brent found he had been dealt two pairs, jacks and nines, frustrating on a night he was determined to lose. He matched bets mechanically, his thoughts elsewhere. Everywhere. New friends. IEDs. The little robot that blundered about, gorging on flung taco chips like a dog chasing scraps. Nanosuits. Angleton. He noticed his hand was shaking: a vote for those who
claimed the Internet was addicting.

  Self-hypnosis had become almost instinctive. Only keeping his eyes open while he did it was hard. He conjured a picture of “his” island. He imagined Schultz lying at his side, purring. He summoned slow waves to roll up the shore, each cresting in a soothing sigh and a froth of white foam. In seconds, Brent felt better—

  But not before his absence had been noticed.

  “We could just take your chips,” Manny said, to general laughter. “You seem to be occupied.”

  Damn! Seeming bored was not part of the plan. What would be an acceptable excuse with this bunch? The truth, actually. This bunch understood PTSD. “Sorry, guys. I was thinking about Angleton.”

  That sobered people up. “You just blanked out on us,” Ethan said.

  “A bit of self-hypnosis. Sometimes it helps. I’m back now.”

  Ethan and Morgan nodded. The two vets had probably heard such things before. The others looked skeptical. Manny said, “Off to your happy place, eh? Does that really work?”

  “Let’s find out.” The several beers in everyone couldn’t hurt. “Close your eyes. Hold your arms out in front of you. Relax.” Brent tried to emulate Samir’s soothing induction patter. After about a minute, Brent said, “Now imagine helium balloons tied to your wrists.”

  Everyone’s arms but Ethan’s tipped upward. Three of four: From Brent’s reading, that was about par for the course. Not everyone was equally hypnotizable. “Okay, now imagine someplace restful. It can be anywhere: a beach, a park, your patio. You’re there. You’re alone. It’s quiet. You’re resting. You’re at peace.”

  Brent fell silent, leaving everyone free to visualize. They were breathing slowly and evenly. If this were a parlor trick, this was the moment to plant the post-hypnotic suggestion. Whom did he want to make cackle like a chicken? The skeptic, of course.

  He resisted the temptation. “I will count down from three. When I reach zero, you will wake up, feeling refreshed. You will all tell me it didn’t work. Three, two, one, zero.”

  “It didn’t work!” four voices called in unison.

  “He told us to say …” Manny ground to a halt midprotest. “But if it hadn’t worked we’d still say it.”

  Brent threw back his head and roared. In a moment, the others joined him.

  Ethan picked up the cards. “You better not suddenly start winning,” he said.

  Careful to keep losing, Brent considered the evening a rousing success.

  thursday, november 10, 2016

  Standing in the empty waiting room, Kim hesitated. Last night, fuming at Charles’s cavalier attitude, coming here had seemed doable. Necessary, even. By daylight, though …

  It wasn’t only that she would be going behind Brent’s back and involving someone he might not even know. A health scare could trigger a chain of events that would delay the field trials. That could impact the entire company, maybe get her fired.

  But this was about Brent, not her. She rapped on the inner door.

  “Come in,” a soft male voice called. She opened the door a few inches and peeked into the office.

  Inside, a short, stocky man in a white lab coat, fortyish, juggled tennis balls. He had curly blond hair and a ruddy complexion, and an amused-with-himself expression that somehow suggested a leprechaun. “Won’t you step into my parlor.”

  “Said the spider to the fly,” she completed.

  He caught the balls: one, two, and—with a bit of a bobble—three. “However you perceive yourself.”

  Who was this guy? “I’m looking for Aaron Sanders.”

  He set the tennis balls on a cluttered desk. “That’s me.”

  “Dr. Aaron Sanders,” she clarified.

  “Still me.” He leaned forward to read her ID badge. “How can I help you, Kim?”

  Evidently not all doctors intimidated her. “Well …”

  “Please excuse the juggling. Since I finished giving flu shots, it’s been awfully quiet in here. I almost hesitate to say, like a morgue.” He tugged his lab coat straight, cleared his throat, and gestured toward a seat. “It’s out of my system. Kim, how may I help you?”

  She needed to talk with a doctor about the bots, and Charles had had his chance. If not Sanders, who was left for her to approach? Her ob-gyn? Perhaps articulating her fears would obligate Sanders to contact public-health officials. So be it. She wasn’t qualified to judge the risks here. “It’s about a colleague, Doctor,” she began.

  “I can’t discuss a patient, or even confirm that someone is a patient. Privacy rules. I can listen to anything you have to say, of course.”

  She waffled again. Was she going to do this? And with the juggler? Her eyes strayed to the tennis balls.

  “Let’s clear the air.” He sat and waited for her to do the same. “Opening the factory meant lots of new staff. That’s where I come in. A company doctor on premises can handle routine sniffles, bumps, and bruises without the muss and fuss of insurance claims. Keeps down the premiums. I’m not here to be an R and D genius.”

  “Well sure, I suppose …”

  He grinned, and the leprechaun aura returned. “You’re thinking any of the docs from the R and D side can do everything I do, and probably more. True—if it weren’t beneath them, and if I didn’t come a lot cheaper. And unlike some folk I might mention, I stayed awake through the lecture on bedside manner.”

  Kim thought about Charles and his brusque dismissal of her concerns. A sympathetic ear might be helpful, indeed. She smiled.

  “That’s better.” Sanders folded his hands. “What’s on your mind, Kim?”

  “This is in confidence, Doctor. Right?”

  “Of course.” Sanders got up and closed the office door. “And it’s just Aaron. Dr. Sanders is my mother, and she teaches dreary medieval French poems at Wabash College. My life is now in your hands, so don’t go quoting me.”

  “This is about Brent Cleary. We’re friends.” Kim found herself squeezing the chair’s padded arms, and willed her fingers to unclench. “You know about his accident, Aaron. Right?”

  “Cleary? Sure, I know. Angleton. It’s company lore.”

  “Are you familiar with the nanobot injections he got?”

  “First-aid bots.” Aaron nodded, entirely serious now.

  Suddenly, words were tumbling out. Kim finished in a rush. “I don’t want to cause problems for Brent, but I’m worried about him. He’s not the same as before.”

  “And you think nanobots left behind could somehow be the cause.”

  “Uh-huh.” Just don’t ask me how.

  Aaron’s chair creaked as he leaned back. “Surviving a catastrophe changes some people. Is it so hard to believe Brent would become more serious? More studious?”

  The same point, essentially, Charles had made—but offered sympathetically. “Of course not, Aaron. I hope this doesn’t sound catty. Brent has become too smart, suddenly everyone’s go-to guy. A superstar.”

  “You obviously think Brent should see a doctor. I assume you started by talking with Brent. What does he have to say about your concerns?”

  That he’s been poked and prodded quite enough. And that Charles and the other experts had given him a clean bill of health. And that there was nothing wrong with him. And that if anything were a problem, the nanobots could have nothing to do with it, because they were long gone. And that if a nanobot or two somehow remained in his system, nothing less than dissection and examining him cell by cell would find it. “Pretty much, ‘Butt out.’”

  “I’m guessing then he’ll be in no hurry to see me.”

  She stood. “Sorry to have bothered you, Aaron.”

  “Hold on.” A tennis ball found its way into Aaron’s right hand. He squeezed it rhythmically, his attention suddenly elsewhere. After about thirty seconds the squeezing stopped. He stood and looked at her. “There’s every reason the on-site doctor should learn about what we make here and any possible side effects. Even though my betters in R and D say there’s no need to worry. I’ll
look into the matter and get back to you. Fair enough?”

  “Thanks, Aaron,” Kim said. For the first time in weeks, she felt a glimmer of hope.

  * * *

  The white-noise generator droned. Samir droned. If he ever finished the latest platitude about these things taking time, Brent thought, it’ll be my turn to drone. What’s the point?

  Samir paused midsentence and tipped his head appraisingly. “You seem rather distracted, Brent. Obviously what we’re discussing is failing to hold your interest.”

  “Talking doesn’t hold my interest, because talking hasn’t helped.”

  “And why do you think—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Brent snapped. “It’s past time you prescribe something for me.” Because OTC stuff, even in double doses, even with alcohol, no longer does the trick for me. Because self-hypnosis, although it brought sleep, seldom kept away the dreams.

  Samir set down his pen and pad. “I remind you, drugs would be treating only the symptom.”

  “I can live with that.”

  A disapproving shake of the head. “Clearly, you had a bad dream last night. Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  Explosion. Fire everywhere. Screaming. Oh, God, the screaming. And … “It was all so unnecessary.”

  “Go on,” Samir said.

  Every night Brent remembered, or reconstructed, or imagined more and more of the Angleton “incident.” And therein lay the horror—not the incident itself, but the sheer stupidity of it. What could possibly be gained from discussing whether distancing meant he was callous or just protecting himself?

  What could be gained? Not a damn thing. Brent stood. “Thanks for your help, Samir. I appreciate it, but I think I’m ready to move on.”

  “Our hour isn’t quite done,” Samir said. “Same price to stay.”

  It’s my treat. “I’m ready to move on,” Brent repeated. And he was—to Googling online pharmacies. Everyone knew there were plenty whose only paperwork requirements involved pre-payment.

  Brent ordered an assortment of meds and some syringes. No telling which sedatives would work best …