Introduction
Everything in this
novel is absolutely true. Dates have been omitted from
e-mail messages to protect the innocent.
Straight ... to the
top.
dPisano, President, ErectSoft INC
Chapter 1
Bonanno Mando Monday Morning
Trouble
In The King's Basement
There was trouble in
the King's Basement. It sniffed through the shadowy rows of shelves and racks
of journals and dog-eared periodicals; it scratched at the metal filing
cabinets and wooden storage cases; it gnashed between the yellowing sheets of
documents and papers, correspondence and court orders.
Trouble was on the prowl and it bristled like static-charged soil in that
instant just before the lightning strikes.
***
Now, the King's
Basement was really the basement of the Family Court Building but it was commonly
referred to as the King's Basement because it was told that a chauffeur-driven
limousine had skidded to a stop in the summer of late1930-something, and out
popped none other than King George of England himself (who was en route to the Capital on a highly secret whirlwind tour
to drum up support for the approaching war). His Hurried Highness scurried up
the stairs and ducked into the Family Court Building, ran downstairs to the
building's only toilet and established his Royal Territorial Rights "down
there in the basement where they keep all them
files," said Lucas Barton, the town's oldest living senior with a memory.
"Peed the same color's the rest of us accordin' to Gail Bright, the cleanin'
lady who washed the toilet that night and said His Highness was the only man
who used the john there in probably a month. An' he was none too good a
shot."
And now, over half a
century later, the quietude of this solemn place was peed away again by a gasp,
a breathless silence, several quick heartbeats, and a cluck of astonishment.
Elsie Delaney stared
semi-wide-eyed at the open file in her shaking hands as two lazy ceiling fans
nudged particles of air floating around in the dust. In all her years in the
Family Court Building, she'd never seen anything quite
like this, never. From somewhere outside the barred window at the end of the
aisle, a car horn honked twice, then twice more. Elsie's cheeks were flushed
and brilliant crimson against the background of a high and wide shock of white
hair.
"Oh my
goodness." Her voice was almost a whisper, a whisper that threatened to
scream in disbelief and turn His Majesty's Quietude on its Devine Butt.
"Oh my."
She laid the file on
top of a bounded set of legal journals, rust red and dust-caked since God knows
when, and she rummaged through the papers in the file. Her fingers and palms
moistened with tension as her shoulders stiffened under her chocolate brown
cardigan. "This is strange.
This is very strange, indeed."
And when she finished
checking every paper in the file, she rechecked, and then checked them again,
held each up to an electric light over her head and rubbed them between thumb
and forefinger to make sure nothing was stuck together.
"Oh my goodness.
That poor man." Elsie picked the file up off the learned volumes and
closed it. "How am I going to tell him?" File in hand, she hobbled
between the towering stacks to the door.
"I certainly
hope he hasn't remarried."
Chapter 2
Rogue
Neutrinos Of The Milky Way
The fake foliage
rustled in a fan-generated breeze by his ear. With his eyes closed and his
nostrils teased by stray wisps of pine incense, he could almost believe that he
was in a wooded area, even if the smell didn't quite
match the tree. But then, the tree wasn't really a
tree and the wooded area was just an arrangement of piezoelectric boughs and
branches and polymer twigs and leaves in a corner of his office.
There was no color in his face, the blood having been flushed from his
veins and replaced with something in an off white, a slow-flowing fluid that
stuck like mashed rice to the walls of his blood vessels.
His eyelids quivered
under mangy brows. His ponderous lower lip twitched over a worry-pinched chin.
His flat nose quaked around the nostrils. His long black pony tail, being
composed of mostly dead matter, flowed with relative calm from the back of his
relatively hair free head.
A string of
microchips embedded in the tree emitted a series of creaks and a groans as he
shifted his weight on the bough.
Some people put rock
climbing configurations on their office walls to practice climbing in their
free time. Malcolm Gray (aka Mal) put a sprawling section of synthetic maple
tree in his office for those moments when nothing would do the trick but
sitting in a tree, and this was one of those moments.
"There's no way
you're divorced," she'd said, her voice so
sympathetic and grandmotherly. The words so horrifying. "There's no way
you're divorced." The soft-spoken woman from the Family Court had left no
outs, no room for hope: "I'm really very terribly
sorry, Mr. Gray, but there are just no divorce papers. There's
only the custody and support papers. Nothing else. You're
not divorced. There was never any
divorce. You're still legally married."
Four years of
thinking he was single, of constructing his life around the basic premise of
his wife having assumed the identity of ex-wife and he, the identity of
ex-husband. All that now down the proverbial shitter.
It clamored in his brain and wrung his stomach into a
twisted rag of nausea. "There's no way you're divorced."
No way. He crouched
in his tree at the sound of a light knock on his door.
***
"Come in,
Sylvie." The words limped out of his mouth like three overweight joggers
crossing the finish line of their first twenty-yard marathon.
The door opened and
Sylvie O'Neil, Mal's Administrative Services
Specialist, strode in, red hair splashing off her shoulders like liquid fire.
Under a bright red sundress with bouncy yellow flowers, sun-browned skin
wrapped itself tightly around a well-tuned five and a half foot frame. A few
dozen freckles grazed quietly on her cheeks.
She touched her pen
into a thick black scheduler. "Caitlin called a few minutes ago to confirm
the nine o'clock in the Barnyard." She looked up at Mal perched four feet
off the floor on a gnarled bough of artificial tree with his arms grasped
tightly around his legs and his knees tucked under his chin. She closed the
scheduler and crossed her arms, resting her chin on two fingers. She studied
Mal closely. "No. I'm afraid the fetal look just
doesn't suit you."
Mal glared at her.
"Go ahead and laugh, Sylvie, but I've just had the serene core of my
being, my happy place, fried into oblivion."
"I love it when
you talk dirty, Mal," said Sylvie, straight-faced. "But, when I see
my boss sitting in a tree in his office, the last thing I'm doing is
laughing." She opened the scheduler. "Shall I confirm the meeting and
request alternate seating? Maybe something in redwood? A palm frond?"
"I'm married,
Sylvie."
Sylvie's left eye
raised. She closed the scheduler and tapped her pen once, lightly, on the
cover. "But I thought you were ... "
"Divorced? So
did I. But somehow the divorce was overlooked during the custody battle. I was
so wrapped up in keeping the dogs that I missed the main thing, the
divorce!"
Sylvie considered
this a moment and then shrugged. "Look at the bright side."
Mal sighed and rolled
his eyes, hugged his legs tighter. "I'm still married, Sylvie! What could
possibly be bright about living a lie for four years?"
Laugh lines on either
side of Sylvie's pug nose crinkled as she said: "You didn't remarry."
***
What was complicated was
now simple. What was awry was now straightened. The essence of Malcolm Gray's
problem had been dissected, catalogued and filed away
in some place not unlike the King's Basement under the label: Monogamist; the
contents of the file being: This is the bright side.
Sylvie fixed her eyes
on Mal's eyes. "Now, get out of the tree and get
back to your usual I-don't-give-a-damn self or I'll transfer to another
department and tell everyone you sit in trees on weekends." Mal wasn't sure if she was serious or joking. His eyes swept
around his office which was mostly shades of gray
except for a dozen or so drawings on the walls, all of them depicting trees
rendered in black ink and floating in space on islands composed of tiny gold
leaf bubbles. Some were as big as three square feet, some as small as three
square inches. In tiny neat letters on the lower right
of each drawing was the artist's signature: mal
Mal's eyes settled on a
large drawing of maples and oaks floating in empty white space atop a
glistening stand of golden bubbles. The tension in his abdomen loosened. The
fear in his eyes withered into loose threads of apprehension and then dissolved
into a few scattered puffs of doubt that winked into nothingness. He let his
legs dangle over the side of the bough.
"That's more
like it," said Sylvie. "You'll need to be on the ball this
morning."
Mal slipped off the
bough and landed surprisingly feather-light for a man approaching two hundred
pounds. "Why's that?" he said, standing a
few feet from Sylvie.
"Paul Dubois
called the meeting."
"Shit."
"Nice to see you
haven't lost your sense of humor. The meeting's to
kick off a new marketing venture."
"Sylvie, every
meeting I go to is for some marketing venture or other. I spend eighty percent
of my days on marketing ventures, sometimes the whole day. I have
to work evenings and weekends on my real work and I still fall behind.
We're the biggest developer of custom corporate software in the world, but it
seems that we do nothing but marketing!"
"Everyone in the
company is on the marketing team, Mal. It's in your
employee handbook. We're all team players in projecting our corporate image, in
providing ... "
"OK. OK. I give
up. I'll go to the damn meeting. I'll ... "
And that's when it happened.
It was like a swift
pointy burn lasting a fraction of a millisecond as it shot needle-like right
through the center of Mal's
brain.
***
What Mal felt
whipping like a hot piano wire through his awareness was, in fact, a band of
rogue neutrinos streaking through the cosmos and raising hell.
Neutrinos, as you
know, are particles of matter so small that they don't
have mass, so small that almost as soon as they begin to exist, they begin to
cease to exist; so small that they pass right through solid objects.
Each day the sun
spits out trillions of these mass-wannabes and they pass right through the
earth and everything living on it, just zip right between our atoms and we don't even know that they've just stepped into our bodies
and then stepped back out. Talk about your perfect houseguests.
Now, in the cosmic
scheme of things, these particular neutrinos had their
beginnings just an instant ago over at the other side of the Milky Way - on the
side opposite the earth. A gang of about a zillion of them, fed up and
thoroughly cheesed, had congregated in the subzero
nothingness of space to express their innermost feelings, an expression which
was summed up as: "It really sucks to be us!"
And while all this
hubbub was going on, two good old neutrinos, Leroy and
Billy, happened on the heated horde. "Check it out, Leroy," said
Billy. "About a zillion neutrinos. Might be a good place to pick up
women."
"Hell, no,"
said Leroy, not showing any particular physical
expression due to lack of mass. "Looks like trouble to me."
Cries of "Chaos
forever!" and "Anarchy! Anarchy! Anarchy!" foamed out of the
roiling non-mass of small stuff.
"Hear
that?" said Billy. "Party! Let's check it
out." Whereupon, Billy whizzed off in the direction of the gathering.
"Oh, hell,"
grumbled Leroy, and followed Billy toward the mini-malcontents. "Nothing
good's gonna come of this. I just know it."
By the time Leroy and
Billy got to the surly group, the neutrinos were pretty riled up, nudging each
other (as only neutrinos can), and shouting things like: "We've been
ignored too long!" and "I'm tired of being faceless!"
Zipping around in the
pissed off horde of subatomic attitude, Billy called
out to Leroy: "Jeez, Leroy ... there's no women! Let's
check outta here!"
Relieved, Leroy shot
back: "I'm with ya, good buddy! Nothing but trouble
makers here."
And just in the nick
of time, Leroy and Billy jumped out of the band of agitated micro-motes and
backed off to a safe distance (about half an inch) just as the particle swarm
streaked off towards the other end of the Milky Way galaxy shouting:
"Death to order! Anarchy forever! "Embrace chaos!"
"What a bunch of
assholes," said Billy.
"You got that
right," said Leroy. "They're gonna cause
one heap of grief for somebody out there."
***
And sure enough, in
their peckish flight from one end of the galaxy to the other, Malcolm Gray was
the only sentient life form in their path. And of all places to pass through
Malcolm Gray, they shot through his brain, primary repository of an entity even
more formless than any band of mass-challenged particles - the human
consciousness. They were there for only a fraction of a second, a time so short
that it was almost a step back in time, but as they passed through Mal's cranium filler they burned a path of havoc, raking up an unholy mess in Mal's
head. And in that cosmic instant, one very strange brain cell was seriously
seared and left smoldering, its secret contents
bubbling out like drool from a baby's mouth.
***
After passing through
Mal's head, the neutrinos continued their stampede
across the cosmos screaming obscenities that nobody and nothing would every
hear. But they never reached the other end of the galaxy. Just a few light
years past the other side of the earth, the motley horde, because neutrinos
tend to decay fast, died off neutrino by neutrino, each flicking out with a
whimpering "Shit!" until all that was left was ... well ... nothing.
And, of course, order
returned to the universe. Or, so it seemed.
***
In other parts of the
universe, something unlike anything in creation snorted angrily. After all its
efforts to rile up the neutrinos and guide them through Mal's
head, the strange cell, though damaged, was still a threat.
***
Mal shook his head as
a shiver passed through his body and a cloud passed over the whites of his dark
eyes, turning them as gray as the walls and carpet of
his office.
"Mal, are you
OK?" Sylvie's eyes narrowed with concern. "You look weird."
"Thanks,
Sylvie." He shook his head again. "You really know how to bolster a
man before an important meeting."
Sylvie studied Mal
closely, noticed the quiver at the corners of his nostrils, his shaking hands.
"I'm having second thoughts about you going to the meeting. I'm thinking that maybe you should go home, or maybe to a park,
find a nice cozy maple to sit in. Get used to not
being divorced."
"I'm OK for the
meeting. The divorce thing will settle in." Mal took a deep breath. This
seemed to calm his nostrils and hands.
Sylvie managed a
smile. "Well, I guess there really is an adorable little team player under
the bark." She opened her scheduler. "And you have an eleven o'clock
in the CityNight, something about customer
satisfaction."
"Another
marketing meeting?"
Sylvie shrugged and
turned toward the door, then stopped. "Oh, by the way, wasn't that awful
about Tara Cunningham?"
"Tara
Cunningham?"
"You haven't
heard? It's in your email with Serious Matter in the heading bar."
"Any
hints?"
"Read your
email." With four strides, she was out of the office and the door was
closed.
Damn, thought Mal, this is going to be
one hell of a day.
On that point,
Malcolm Gray was right on the money. For on this day, the fate of the universe
would hinge on a man who sat in trees and botched divorces.