The officially promoted view of HelthWyzer West was that it was one big happy family, dedicated to the pursuit of truth and the betterment of humankind. To dwell too much on the improvement in value for the shareholders was considered bad taste, but on the other hand there was an employee options package. All staff were expected to be unremittingly cheerful, to meet their assigned goals diligently, and - as in real families - not to ask too much about what was really going on.
Again like real families, there were no-go zones. Some were conceptual, but some were purely physical. The pleebland outside the HelthWyzer Compound was one of these, unless you had a pass and designated protection. The firewalls around IP had become thick and in some cases impenetrable, unless you had an inside track; so if you couldn't hack the system, you grabbed the primary source material. Brainiacs from Corps of all kinds were being kidnapped and smuggled abroad, or - some said - into rival Corps Compounds - and then strip-mined for the gold and jewels their heads were assumed to contain.
This was a cause for serious concern at HelthWyzer West - which meant there was some fairly important stuff going on behind locked doors - and barriers had been put in place. The top biogeeks carried alarm beepers that registered their whereabouts, though these had sometimes been adroitly hacked and then used as a means of targeting their bearers and tracking them down. Here and there on the walls of hallways and meeting rooms, posters reminded the unwary of ever-present perils. FOLLOW THE SAFETY RULES AND KEEP YOUR HEAD! AND ITS CONTENTS! Or: YOUR MEMORY IS OUR IP, SO WE'LL PROTECT IT FOR YOU!
Or: BRAINS ARE LIKE MEADOWS: A CULTIVATED ONE IS WORTH MORE. On this last poster, someone had written with a Sharpie: Get more cultivated! Eat more shit! So, thought Zeb, there was at least some hidden dissent among the smiley faces.
As part of the happy family ethos, HelthWyzer West threw a barbecue every Thursday in the central parkette of the Compound. Adam had told Zeb that these affairs should not be missed, as they were prime territory for eavesdropping and figuring out the invisible power filaments. Those wearing the most casual clothing would most likely be the alphas. Adam also said that Zeb would find some of the recreational pursuits of interest, especially the board games; though he hadn't said why.
So Zeb turned up at the HelthWyzer West barbecue on the first Thursday after his arrival. He sampled the eats: SoYummie ice cream for the kids, pork ribs for the carnivores, SoyOBoy products and quornburgers for the vegans. NevRBled Shish-K-Buddies for those who wanted to eat meat without killing animals - the cubes were lab-cultured from cells ("No Animal Suffered"), and he figured that with enough beer they wouldn't taste too bad. But he intended to limit his drinking because he needed to stay alert, so he stuck with the ribs. You didn't have to be half-cut to appreciate those.
Around the edges of the crowd, various geeky sports were in progress. Croquet and bocci in the sun, ping-pong and foosball under the awnings. Circle games for the under-sixes, variations of tag for the older ones. And for the serious and superintelligent and potentially Aspergerian child brainiacs, a row of umbrella-shaded computers where they could do obsessive-compulsive things online - within HelthWyzer firewalls, of course - and challenge each other to combat without making eye contact.
Zeb scoped out the games: Three-Dimensional Waco, Intestinal Parasites, Weather Challenge, Blood and Roses. Also Barbarian Stomp, a new one on him.
Here came Marjorie with the spaniel's eyes, making a beeline towards him, her beseeching smile at the ready, enhanced by a smear of ketchup on the chin. Time to duck and cover: she had the look of a woman who'd already staked out a claim, and would go through a guy's pants pockets while he was asleep in search of rivals, and would most likely read his email. Though maybe he was being paranoid. But best not to take chances.
"Want to go a round with me?" he said to the nearest youthful brainiac, a thin boy in a dark T-shirt with a stack of gnawed pork ribs on the paper plate beside him. Was that a cup of coffee? Since when was coffee allowable for a kid that age? Where were the parents?
The boy looked up at him with large, green, opaque but possibly mocking eyes. Even the children wore name tags to these barbecues, it seemed: Glenn, Zeb read.
"Sure," said young Glenn. "Conventional chess?"
"As opposed to?" said Zeb.
"Three-dimensional," said Glenn indifferently. If Zeb didn't know that, then he couldn't be a very good player. Blatantly obvious.
So that was how Zeb first met Crake.
"But like I said, he wasn't Crake yet," says Zeb. "He was just a kid then. Not too much bad stuff had happened to him, though 'not too much' is always a matter of taste."
"Really?" says Toby. "That long ago?"
"Would I lie to you?" says Zeb.
Toby thinks about it. "Not about this," she says.
Zeb generously and also patronizingly let Glenn play White, and Glenn walloped him, though Zeb put up an honourable fight. After that they did a round of Three-Dimensional Waco, and Zeb beat Glenn, who immediately wanted another game. This one ended in a tie. Glenn looked at Zeb with a small increase of respect and asked him where he'd come from.
Zeb then told a couple of lies, but they were entertaining lies: he put in Miss Direction and the Floating World, and some of the bears from Bearlift, though he changed the name and the location and left out anything about dead Chuck. Glenn had never been outside a Compound, or not that he could remember, so these tales must have had mythic dimensions for him. Though he made a point of not looking impressed.
In any case, Glenn started turning up in Zeb's vicinity at the Thursday barbecue events and hanging around at lunchtimes. It wasn't hero-worship, not exactly; nor did Glenn want Zeb to be his dad. More like an older brother, Zeb decided. There weren't that many kids his age at HelthWyzer West for Glenn to play games with. Or not ones as smart as him. Not that Glenn thought Zeb was up to scratch, smarts-wise, but he was within range. Though there was a slight air of command performance about these proceedings: Glenn as the crown prince and Zeb as the somewhat dim courtier.
How old exactly was Glenn? Eight, nine, ten? It was hard for Zeb to tell because he didn't like to remember what his own life had been like when he'd been eight or nine or ten. He'd spent too much time in the dark back then, one way or another. All of that needed to be forgotten, and he'd worked at forgetting it. Still, when he saw a boy of that age the first thing he wanted to say was, Run away! Run away very fast! And the second thing was, Grow bigger! Grow very big! If you could grow very big, then whoever they were would cease to have power over you. Or so much power. Though it hadn't worked for whales, he reflected. Or tigers. Or elephants.
There must have been a they in the life of young Glenn, or maybe an it: something that was haunting him. He had that look about him, a look Zeb used to catch glimpses of when he saw himself unawares in the mirror: a wary, distrustful look, as if he didn't know what bush or parking lot or piece of furniture was going to chasm suddenly to reveal the lurking enemy or the bottomless pit. Though Glenn had no scars, no bruises, and no difficulty eating his meals, or not that Zeb could see; so what was that haunting entity? Nothing definite, perhaps. More like a lack, a vacuum.
After several Thursdays and some close observation, Zeb concluded that neither of Glenn's parents had a lot of time for him. Nor for each other: from the body language, they were well past the stage of irritation or even occasional dislike and were deep into active hatred. When they met in public they resorted to iceman stares and monosyllables, and to walking quickly away. There was a pot of boiling rage on a private stove behind their closed curtains: that bubbling cauldron was taking all their attention, with Glenn relegated to a footnote or else a trading card. Maybe the kid gravitated to Zeb for the same reason children like dinosaurs: when feeling abandoned in a world of forces beyond your control, it's comforting to have a huge, scaly beast who is your friend.
Glenn's mother was on the food admin staff, tracking supplies and devising meal plans. Glenn's dad was a semi-top researcher - an
expert in unusual microbes, wonky viruses, odd antigens, and offbeat variants of anaphylaxis biovectors. Ebola and Marburg were among his specialties, but right now he was working on a rare allergic reaction to red meat that was linked to tick bites. An agent in the salivary proteins of ticks caused it, said Glenn.
"So," said Zeb, "a tick drools into you and then you can't have steak any more without bursting out in hives and suffocating to death?"
"Bright side," said Glenn. He was going through a phase: he'd say "bright side," then add some gruesome sidebar. "Bright side, if they could spread it through the population - those tick saliva proteins embedded in, say, the common aspirin - then everyone would be allergic to red meat, which has a huge carbon footprint and causes the depletion of forests, because they're cleared for cattle grazing; and then ..."
"Not my idea of a bright side," said Zeb. "For argument: we're hunter-gatherers, we evolved to eat meat."
"And to develop lethal allergies to tick saliva," said Glenn.
"Only in those slated to be eliminated from the gene pool," said Zeb. "Which is why it's rare."
Glenn grinned, not something he did often. "Point," he said.
While Zeb and Glenn were playing onscreen games at the Thursday events, Glenn's mother, Rhoda, would sometimes drift over to watch, leaning a little too close to Zeb's shoulder, sometimes even touching it with - what? The business end of her tit? Felt like it: that nubbin shape. Certainly not a finger. Her breath, scented with beer, would riffle the fine hairs near his ear. She never touched Glenn, however. In fact, nobody ever touched Glenn. He somehow arranged it that way: he'd erected an invisible no-fly zone around himself.
"You guys," Rhoda would say. "You should get out there and run around. Play some croquet." Glenn didn't acknowledge these motherly interventions, nor did Zeb: Glenn's mother, although not wizened, was past the optimum freshness date as far as he was concerned, though if he'd been marooned on a liferaft with her.... But he wasn't, so he ignored the nipple nudges and the breath-to-ear signals and concentrated on the Blood part of Blood and Roses: eradicating the population of ancient Carthage and sowing the land with salt, enslaving the Belgian Congo, and murdering firstborn Egyptian babies.
Though why stop at firstborns? Some atrocities turned up by the virtual Blood and Roses dictated that the babies be tossed into the air and skewered on swords; others, that they be thrown into furnaces; yet others, that their brains be dashed out against stone walls. "Trade you a thousand babies for the Palace of Versailles and the Lincoln Memorial," he said to Glenn.
"No deal," said Glenn. "Unless you throw in Hiroshima."
"That's outrageous! You want these babies to die in agony?"
"They aren't real babies. It's a game. So they die, and the Inca Empire gets preserved. With all that cool gold art."
"Then kiss the babies goodbye," said Zeb. "Heartless little bugger, aren't you? Splat. There. Gone. And by the way, I'm cashing in my Wildcard Joker points to blow up the Lincoln Memorial."
"Who cares?" said Glenn. "I've still got the Palace of Versailles, plus the Incas. Anyway, there's too many babies. They make a huge carbon footprint."
"You guys are awful," said Rhoda, scratching herself. Zeb could hear the fingernails going behind his back, a sound like cat claws on felt. He wondered which part of herself she was scratching, then made an effort to stop wondering. Glenn had enough troubles without his one reliable friend making the double-backed beast with his unreliable mother.
Before he knew it, Zeb was giving young Glenn some extracurricular lessons in coding, which meant - practically speaking - in hacking as well. The kid was a natural, and he was finally impressed by some of the things Zeb knew and he didn't, and he caught on like magic. How tempting was it to take that talent and hone it and polish it and pass on the keys to the kingdom - the Open Sesames, the back doors, the shortcuts? Very tempting. So that is what Zeb did. It was a lot of fun watching the kid soak it all up, and who was to foresee the consequences? Which is usually the way with fun.
In return for Zeb's coding and hacking secrets, Glenn shared a few secrets of his own. For instance, he'd bugged his mother's room with an audio earlet concealed in her bedside lamp, by which means it became known to Zeb that Rhoda was having it off with an upper-middle-management type called Pete, usually right before lunchtime.
"My dad doesn't know," said Glenn. He considered for a moment, fixing Zeb with his uncanny green eyes. "Think I should tell him?"
"Maybe you shoudn't listen in on that shit," said Zeb.
Glenn gave him a cool stare. "Why not?"
"Because those things are for grown-ups," Zeb said, sounding prissy even to himself.
"You would, when you were my age," Glenn said, and Zeb couldn't deny that it was a thing he'd have done in a millisecond, given the opportunity and the tech. Avidly, gloatingly, without thinking twice.
On the other hand, maybe he wouldn't have done it if it involved his own parents. Even now he can't think about the Rev making umphing sounds while bobbing up and down on top of Trudy - who'd be slippery with perfumed lotion and lubricant, and would resemble an overstuffed pink satin pillow - without feeling queasy.
Grob's Attack
"Here comes the part where I meet Pilar," says Zeb.
"What on earth was Pilar doing at HelthWyzer West?" says Toby. "Working for a Corp, inside a Compound?"
But she knew the answer. A lot of the Gardeners had started out inside a Corp Compound, and a lot of the MaddAddamites had as well. Where else was a bioscience-trained person to work? If you wanted a job in research, you had to work for a Corp because that was where the money was. But you'd naturally be focused on projects that interested them, not on ones that interested you. And the ones that interested them had to have a profitable commercial application.
Zeb first met Pilar at one of the Thursday barbecues. He hadn't seen her there before. Some of the more senior people didn't attend the weekly ribfests: they were for younger people who might or might not be angling for a casual pickup or looking to exchange gossip and glean info, and Pilar was beyond that stage. As Zeb learned later, she was well up the seniority ladder.
But she was there that Thursday. All Zeb saw at first was a small, black-and-grey-haired older woman playing chess with Glenn, over on the sidelines. It was an odd combo - almost-old lady, uppity young kid - and odd combos intrigued him.
He sauntered up casually and loomed over Glenn's shoulder. He watched the game for a while, trying not to kibbitz. Neither side had an obvious advantage. The old dame played relatively quickly, though without fluster, while Glenn pondered. She was making him work.
"Queen to h5," Zeb said at last. Glenn was playing Black this time. Zeb wondered if he'd chosen it out of bravado or whether they'd flipped for White.
"Don't think so," said Glenn without looking up while moving his knight to block - Zeb now saw - a possible check. The older woman smiled at Zeb, one of those wrinkly-eyed brown-skinned gnome-in-the-woods smiles that could mean anything from I like you to Watch out.
"Who is your friend?" she said to Glenn.
Glenn frowned at Zeb, which meant he felt insecure about the game. "This is Seth," he said. "This is Pilar. Your move."
"Hey," said Zeb, nodding.
"A pleasure," said Pilar. "Good save," she said to Glenn.
"Catch you later," Zeb said to Glenn. He wandered off to eat some NevRBled Shish-K-Buddies - he was getting fond of them, despite their ersatz texture - topped off with a SoYummie cone, quasiraspberry flavour.
He sucked on the cone while looking over the field and ranking all the women he could see. It was a harmless pastime. The scale was one to ten. There were no tens (In a Minute!), a couple of eights (With Mild Reservations), a clutch of fives (If Nothing Else Available), some definite threes (You'd Have to Pay Me), and an unfortunate two (Pay Me a Lot!) - when he felt a touch on his arm.
"Don't act surprised, Seth," said a low voice. He looked down: it was tiny, walnut-faced Pilar. Was she makin
g a move on him? Surely not, but if so it could be a delicate moment, politeness-wise: how to say no in an acceptable manner?
"Your shoelaces are untied," she said.
Zeb stared at her. His shoes didn't have laces. They were slip-ons.
"Welcome to MaddAddam, Zeb," she said, smiling.
Zeb coughed out a chunk of SoYummie cone. "Fuck!" he said, but he had the presence of mind to say it softly. Adam and his idiot shoelaces password. Who could have remembered?
"It's all right," said Pilar. "I know your brother. I helped bring you here. Look bored, as if we're making small talk." She smiled at him again. "I'll see you at the next Thursday barbecue. We should arrange to play a game of chess." Then she wafted serenely away towards the croquet game. She had excellent posture: Zeb sensed a yoga aficionado. Posture like that made him feel personally sloppy.
He longed to go online, zigzag into the Extinctathon MaddAddam chatroom, and ask Adam about this woman, but he knew that wouldn't be prudent. The least said the better online, even if you thought your space was secure. The net had always been just that - a net, full of holes, all the better to trap you with; and it still was, despite the fixes they claimed to be adding constantly, with the impenetrable algorithms and the passwords and thumb scans.
But what else did they expect? With code serfs like him in charge of the security keys, of course the thing was going to leak. The pay was too low, so the temptation to pilfer, snoop, snitch, and sell for high rewards was great. But the penalties were getting more extreme, which was a counterbalance of sorts. Online thieves were increasingly professional, like the outfits he'd worked with in Rio. Few were hacking for the pure lulz of it any more, or even to register protests, as they had in the golden years of legend that middle-aged guys wearing retro Anonymous masks got all nostalgic about in the dim, cobwebby, irrelevant corners of the web.
What good would registering a protest do you any more? The Corps were moving to set up their own private secret-service outfits and seize control of the artillery; not a month passed without the arrival of some new weapons law pretending to safeguard the public. Old-style demonstration politics were dead. You could get back at individual targets such as the Rev using underhanded means, but any kind of public action involving crowds and sign-waving and then storefront smashing would be shot off at the knees. Increasingly, everyone knew that.