The Second Sphere

Feeling revitalized that morning, I felt a twinkle of excitement about work for the first time in at least fifty years. Victor Newberry was vine ripe. I just needed to pick him. I’d read plenty of his drivel over the years, seen the conferences on legitimate resistance he put on at the Dahlgren Institute, and often wondered whether he was, in fact, an affiliate of the Green Revolution. And now, I had pretty good evidence that he was.

From the way it sounded to me, he was getting used. But I guessed Newberry didn’t mind one bit. Access to prime time information kept him on everyone’s a-list. Now he was on mine. It was a pretty sweet scam they ran, one that had kept us spinning for at least the past few months. If I could get my hands on that little worm, maybe get him to flip on any cells he had contact with, my fortunes would go up.

When I got up to the Intelligence floor that morning, ready to report the good news to Bryant, Hildie stopped me.

“Someone delivered this to you this morning, Mr. Cox,” she said. She touched what appeared to be a white paper envelope on the edge of her desk. I put a finger to the rectangular dimensions, felt the fibrous material, and spun around to see whether anyone saw what I saw.

“You didn’t happen to see who brought this, did you?” I asked.

“Courier service, Mr. Cox. Early this morning,” she said. I snatched the envelope and rubbed the pulpy container like it was a magic lamp. It was real paper, the first I’d seen in more than a couple of centuries. This was significant. Someone wanted to keep information out of the digital world and away from the groping hands of the TSG.

“Thanks, Hildie,” I said.

A buzz ran through the maze of desks behind the locked door to the Intelligence Division. There were people on link-ups, mining databases for whatever information they could get their hands on, running simulations to see the particulars of what happened in New Mumbai. The same shit they did for every bombing.

I ignored that entire mess, my heart beating heavily as I strode to my office, eager to see what was in the envelope. I needed to be alone. With a probing eye on those stalking the hallways, I established that not a single one of them paid attention to me or seemed to care about my neurotic behavior. Entering the office, I carefully locked the door behind me, the envelope firmly between my fingertips. The room smelled like dirty clothes and flaking synthetic skin.

On the front of the envelope, someone had carefully hand-printed my name.

I still couldn’t believe what was in front of me. I held real paper in my hands. Real paper. I hated to tear its perfection, but I could see, as I held it up to the light, that there was something inside. I sighed. With a single rip, the envelope opened. I tilted it to the left, and a tri-folded piece of paper fell out.

I let the envelope fall from my hands and float to the floor. All that I cared about was the single sheet in my hands. I opened the piece of paper and carefully smoothed the tight creases. A stilted, oddly slanted script leapt across the page. I hadn’t read actual handwriting in years, and it took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the strange curves.

Mr. Cox,

I would very much like to meet with you this evening. Please be discreet. Four Provinces 9 pm.

V. Newberry

My first instinct was to declare the note a hoax, something drawn from the mind of Dawkins to trap me. The very notion that Victor Newberry would put pen to paper to invite me for a meeting didn’t make a whole lot of sense on the surface. Too soon. Too absurd.

But the longer I contemplated, the easier it was to convince myself that the note was real. There didn’t appear to be any advantage to this deception. Certainly, Mr. Newberry would know that I would inform my superiors about his request to meet with me. Discretion was in the eye of the beholder. He would know this. If anything were to happen to me, the Laslow Corporation would be all over the scene. Whoever wrote the note, and I hoped it was Newberry, took a great risk by doing so.

I put the piece of paper back in the envelope and wedged it between the bottom of my link-up and the desk. I unlocked the door to the office and raced down the hallway to tell Bryant. He was at his desk, eyeing his link-up very seriously. He lifted his head and I saw the crease along his forehead and the frown on his lips. The pressure was on him.

“What?” he asked.

“I think I’ve got something,” I said.

I told him about my conversations the previous evening.

“So I’m meeting Newberry tonight,” I said.

Bryant sat up straight in his chair. “Tonight?” he asked. He stood up like a little boy who just learned about the bicycle he would get for Christmas, nervously rubbing his thumbs and forefingers together.

“Listening to Quincy talk yesterday put the fear into me,” I said.

We gazed at each other across the table.

“You give me ten minutes, I’ll go up there to Quincy’s office with you and we can tell him the good news,” Bryant said.

I left his office and walked to my own, dreaming about what kind of commendation I might get for bringing in the biggest intelligence scoop in the past few decades. Sitting at her desk was an intoxicated Rosie. Face down on the table, a little puddle of drool by her mouth, she looked like the junkie she was. At first I thought she was just being dramatic, so I ignored her, slumped in my own seat, and waited for Bryant to show up.

After a few moments, I began to whistle a pleasant, improvised tune. Even with the irritating shrillness of my melody, Rosie didn’t move. That was troubling. Normally, if I’d been in such a chipper mood sans enhancement, Rosie would’ve lashed out at me. But, instead, she just lay there.

I stood, walked over to her, and tapped her on the shoulder. There was no movement, not even trembling behind her eyelids. I bent over, put my face directly in front of hers. Nothing. I tapped her on the shoulder again, and this time she leaned back as though I’d hit her on the head with a hammer. Her eyes gaped wide, her blonde hair was wild and uncombed like she’d been playing with an electrical outlet, and her clothes were wrinkled—a sure sign she’d been in them all night.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Sure,” she slurred.

I stepped away from her for a moment and closed the door.

“Bryant’s about to come through that door any minute.”

Her eyes were lifeless; her mouth was open like a cave.

“What is this, Love?” I asked.

Rosie nodded.

“You’ve got to dry out.”

It was at that moment Bryant pushed through the door. His gaze fell upon Rosie and a disappointed “oh” fell from his lips.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asked.

I pointed a finger at Rosie. “She needs to go home,” I said.

Bryant leaned over and put his hands on his knees. “You been at the Source any time recently?” he asked. She shook her head.

“No? Well, I’m going to make this easy for you so there’s no mistaking what I’m saying. Go home, get some Source time and come back in two days.”

“Boss?” she said, her voice cracking. Her head was like a merry-go-round on top of her neck.

“You’re sick Rosie. You need to dry out. When you get back, we can talk about getting you into a program,” Bryant said.

I ordered a bot, and in three minutes, Rosie had a metal claw around her arm. A short bot dragged her out the door. I watched her stumble down the hallway, wondering when I’d see her next.