Fall or, Dodge in Hell

5

Corvallis felt his phone buzzing in his shirt pocket and peeked at the screen. It was a local number that he did not recognize. It ended in two zeroes, suggesting the call was originating from a main switchboard. He excused himself, arose from the table, and walked into the foyer of the suite before answering it.

A minute later he was back in the dining room. In his absence, chairs had been pushed back, dishes collected, laptops slipped back into bags. Zula caught his eye. “El Shepherd still hassling you?”

“It was the place,” Corvallis said. Fully aware of how inarticulate he was being, he blinked, shook his head, and circled around for another try. “The medical office where Dodge was yesterday. Where he was, uh, ‘stricken’ I guess is the word.”

“The people who killed him?” Alice asked. “What did they want?”

“I’m on record as his emergency contact—I was there when it happened,” Corvallis said. “They were just calling to let me know that they have his bag. With his stuff. And his clothes and his wallet and so on. All of that was left behind when the firemen came and grabbed him. So, I guess I’ll walk over there and pick all of that stuff up.” The Forthrasts were all just staring at him. “If, you know, that makes things easier.”

“Please,” Alice said.

“I’ll walk you down,” Stan announced, placing a companionable hand on Corvallis’s shoulder.

In the elevator, Corvallis asked him, “Did I miss anything?”

“Zula is going to talk to a couple of vent farms,” Stan said.

“What’s a vent farm?”

“Horrible term. When you have a patient like Richard, who is fundamentally stable but who can’t be taken off the ventilator, there’s no need to keep him in the ICU. It is overkill. It’s expensive and it takes up bed space that the hospital could use for people who really need intensive care. There are businesses that exist to serve this market. Think of it like a nursing home, except all of the people who live there are …”

“Are like Richard?”

“Yeah. There’s a politically correct term for it, but doctors call it a vent farm.”

“So we’re thinking of moving Dodge to a vent farm?”

“Alice is vehemently opposed,” Marcus said. He managed to say it in a manner that, while utterly deadpan, still conveyed some sense of the vivid impressions he had taken in, during the conversation just concluded, of Alice Forthrast.

“She wants him to stay in the ICU?”

“The alternative would be to move him back to his apartment and put him back in his real bed,” Stan said. “The ventilator would have to go with him, of course. Round-the-clock nursing care, the whole bit.”

“Esme Hurlbut is pushing for it hard,” Marcus added.

“She wants him off the property,” Stan said.

The elevator doors opened and they walked out into the hotel lobby. “She’s a lawyer,” Corvallis pointed out.

“She can see where it’s going—the protocol. The ice bath, the freezing of the remains. No way does she want that happening on hospital property.”

“I see.”

They stepped out into the hotel’s front drive and paused under the awning, which was giving off faint white noise as small drops of rain filtered down onto it from the silver sky. “You’re going to get Dodge’s effects now?”

“Effects? Yeah.” Corvallis wondered at what point the clothes, wallet, and so forth became effects.

“I would be shocked if they tried to pull a fast one,” Stan said, “but say nothing, okay? Other than hello and goodbye.”

“A fast one?”

“They are going to be worried about a malpractice suit. If they start pumping you for information—anything other than just handing over the bag—just walk away. Then call me.”

Corvallis shook hands with Stan and Marcus and then stepped out into the rain and began navigating the streets of First Hill on foot, headed for the medical practice where Dodge had been stricken. It was a short walk but a much-needed head clearer.

Or at least it was until his phone rang again. He was just outside the building, looking down a street lined with spectacular red maple trees. The very spot where Dodge had yesterday been buttonholed by the young fan with the broken arm, and unwittingly filmed his last video.

It was El Shepherd again. Corvallis decided to take the call.

“Corvallis Kawasaki. Is it true that you go by C-plus? Or is that just close friends? I don’t want to be unduly familiar at a time like this. I’m sorry for what you’re going through.”

“At an intermediate level of formality, I am frequently addressed simply as C. I would not take that amiss. And what shall I call you, Mr. Shepherd?”

Elmo Shepherd had been named in honor of a grandfather or great-uncle or something who had been born in a time and place where Elmos, Elwoods, Delberts, and Dewaynes had been thick on the ground, and such names had seemed normal and even dignified. Upon shedding Mormonism and moving to the Bay Area to seek his fortune, he had learned that the name was likely to be seen as somewhat comedic and so had dropped its back syllable. Under the moniker of El he had risen to a level of wealth and influence such that, without provoking snorts of laughter, he could begin using the full name again on formal occasions such as White House dinners and ribbon-cuttings of state-of-the-art research facilities. Corvallis was aware that it was something of a shibboleth. Usage of “El,” in the right tone of voice, could suggest personal acquaintance.

“El is fine, thank you,” said the voice on the other end of the connection. Then there was nothing, for a moment, save for the sound of a propeller-driven aircraft taking off. “Sorry,” he said when the sound had dwindled, “I’m at Boeing Field. Just let me get inside the building here.”

“You flew up?”

“Yes, you might have seen that I tried to call you a couple of hours ago. From the tarmac in San Rafael.” El then gave a muffled thank-you to someone who, to judge from sound effects, had held a door open for him. Corvallis knew exactly where he was: the private jet terminal on the eastern edge of Boeing Field.

“Yes, sorry, I was in a meeting. With the family.”

“Of course.”

“I had heard you didn’t like to fly,” Corvallis said.

“That’s actually true, unlike a lot of stuff that’s written about me,” El said, “but there is a need to take calculated risks.”

As often happened when he was talking on the phone, Corvallis’s gaze was wandering about freely, focusing from time to time on things that lit up his visual cortex: a pretty student from the adjacent university, a purple Tesla driving by, a chocolate Lab taking a crap in the bushes as its owner stood vigil with a blue New York Times bag everted over his free hand. A perfect red maple leaf lay spread-eagled on the sidewalk at his feet, plastered down by the rain. Around it, the concrete was stained with the colors that kids’ toys came in: sickly artificial purples and greens and pinks. Someone had come here with a box of sidewalk chalk and drawn a piece of art. Corvallis took a step away from it and saw a rain-blurred portrait of a man with white hair and beard. A God of the Old Testament in grape-colored robe with a rainbow aura surrounding his head. Inscribed at the base of the artwork was EGDOD. The name of Dodge’s most powerful character in T’Rain. Some fan must have seen the video on Reddit, pulled out its GPS coordinates, and come to the site to pay homage by chalking up an ikon. Maybe they believed that Dodge’s hospital room overlooked this place, that Dodge was in some sort of condition to look out the window and see it.

“You still there?” El asked. “I ducked into a conference room.” The private jet terminal was the sort of place that had nice conference rooms just sitting there available for people like El to duck into.

“How do you see the day taking shape?” Corvallis asked. Because El must have had some reason to take what he viewed as a calculated risk. Basically—according to what was written about him—El Shepherd intended to live forever, and so he didn’t like to place himself in situations where his brain could be destroyed. He had a mobile office, built into a bus, which he preferred over airplane travel. Buses could crash, of course, but unless you T-boned a gasoline tanker at a hundred miles an hour, the destruction probably wouldn’t rise to the level that would completely destroy the brain. Whereas the crash of a jet airplane could leave nothing behind for rescuers to scrape up and put into the freezer.

“I have a few errands I could run, as long as I’m up here,” El returned, “but I’m sure you can guess the primary reason for my visit.”

“Yes.”

“The last thing I want to do is impose on the family at a time like this …”

“It’s fine,” Corvallis said, wondering if El could hear the smile in his voice. He got it. The bereaved family was off-limits but the bereaved friend was fair game. “I am running a brief errand. It will take me five minutes. Then I’ll grab my car and head for Georgetown.” That was the neighborhood just north of Boeing Field. “If you want to pick out a suitable restaurant or whatever, just text me the coordinates and I will be there in half an hour.”

“Fine. Over and out,” El said.

Corvallis snapped a picture of the sidewalk art, then went into the building, steeling himself for yet another in the seemingly endless series of awkward conversations that had accounted for the last day of his life. It was going to be awkward because the people at the medical office were going to try to be nice to him, to voice sympathy. And yet they couldn’t say anything that would place them at a disadvantage when it was repeated in a courtroom during a malpractice suit and so it was all going to be so terribly awkward. By comparison he was actually looking forward to the meeting in half an hour with El Shepherd, who could be relied upon to charge blindly across the emotional minefield and get down as soon as possible to geeking out on connectomics.

They had a little conference room near the front desk of the medical practice, the most generic conference room you could imagine. The office manager escorted Corvallis to it. Sitting there alone in the middle of the table were Dodge’s shoulder bag and a canvas tote bag emblazoned—this was too inevitable—with the logo of the local National Public Radio station. Someone had neatly folded Dodge’s clothing, which Dodge had no doubt simply left in a heap on the floor of the changing room, and placed it into the tote bag. This one detail made it more clear than anything else that Dodge was dead. Corvallis pulled one of the chairs back, sat down, folded his arms on the table, bent forward, and rested his forehead on them. He cried fully and freely for a couple of minutes. The office manager hovered nervously at first, then excused herself, then came back a minute later with a box of tissues, then excused herself again. Corvallis inferred all of this from sounds; he could see nothing through his tears but the fake wood grain of the conference room table. When he sat back up again, he could see her standing outside wringing her hands. He blotted his eyes with tissues and then used them to wipe tears that had spilled onto the tabletop. He threw the damp tissues into a convenient receptacle, then slung Dodge’s messenger bag over his shoulder and tucked the canvas tote under his arm. The office manager opened the door for him. He nodded to her and walked out of the medical practice without looking back.

On the sidewalk outside, someone had, during the last few minutes, placed a bouquet of grocery store flowers on the picture of Egdod. The bouquet had been additionally wrapped up in a length of black wire. On a closer look, it was a controller from a video game console neatly bundled around the stems of the flowers.

6

Half an hour later he was in a booth in the back of a bar in Georgetown. Across from him was El Shepherd. El was wearing a suit. Some Bay Area tech zillionaires liked to cut against the grain by wearing finely tailored clothing. He was one of those. “C,” he said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“It’s okay,” Corvallis said, “I did the sad thing. Just took care of it. Done with that now.” His arm was draped over the items he had collected from the medical practice. He had brought them into the bar with him. Georgetown was a complicated neighborhood, car prowls were common, and he didn’t want Dodge’s effects turning up for sale tomorrow on the Miasma. This would have appealed to Dodge’s sense of humor but would have been distressing to Alice.

“Okay,” El said, a little disconcerted. “Look then, I’m not going to beat around the bush. Are you up to speed on the documents that Richard Forthrast signed with Ephrata Cryonics? Do you know about that?”

“Fully,” Corvallis said. “Yes.”

“And you know …”

“About ELSH and everything? The buyout? The scanning and the cloud storage? Yes.”

“This is probably neither here nor there, by the way, but your company …”

“Nubilant is storing those scans. Yes, I was aware of that too.”

“Okay,” said El with a nod, “then it sounds like you are up to speed on what I would consider the past and the present aspects of the situation. But there’s no way that you can know what we have in mind for the future.”

“Fair enough.”

The waitress showed up with a pint of beer that Corvallis had ordered. He felt justified in the consumption of alcohol at lunch under these circumstances. El was drinking a clear fluid with lime, presumably nonalcoholic. Not taking any risks with those brain cells. What was the “calculated risk,” Corvallis wondered, of sitting in a Georgetown bar at all? How many of the people sitting at the bar, drinking at noon, were carrying concealed weapons as a matter of course? An accidental discharge, or a not-so-accidental one, could put a bullet through El’s skull and scatter his brains and his plans for immortality. Did El have a spreadsheet somewhere, where he calculated these probabilities and weighed them against each other?

“Since it’s just you and me here, having a private conversation, I will not insult your intelligence, C, by trying to claim that the scanning technique that was used on the Ephrata Eleven was anything we would consider using today.”

“On Richard Forthrast, you mean.”

“Him or anyone.”

“Anyone?”

“Me. C, please understand that I see myself as being on exactly the same footing as Richard Forthrast. If something were to happen to me today that caused me to end up on a ventilator, then I would want the most advanced possible measures taken to preserve my connectome. No expense would be spared to get it right. I am here to tell you that there is no difference between me and Richard Forthrast as far as that is concerned. There is no such thing as a second-class treatment option.”

Corvallis took a sip of his beer. It was good. He wondered if there was beer in El Shepherd’s digital heaven.

“You’re probably looking at ion-beam scanning,” El said.

“Yes.” This was the new technique Corvallis had alluded to earlier. The one WABSI was using on mouse brains. The family conference in the hotel suite hadn’t felt like the right time or place to delve into its technical details.

If you bought into the proposition, which El Shepherd apparently did, that the connectome was all that there was to the human brain—that, once you had created a digital record of the wiring diagram, and stored that in the cloud, you could throw away what was left of the body and not lose anything that mattered—then ion-beam scanning appeared to be the answer. The older technique, used on the eleven Ephrata Cryonics brains, had been to run them through what amounted to a high-precision bologna slicer, cutting away the thinnest possible layers, one at a time, and photographing what had been thus exposed, and then repeating the process. Then trying to trace the connections as they angled across the photographic layers. This was the hard problem that WABSI had attempted to gamify a couple of years ago. It was only as good as the thinness of the bologna slicing, the resolution of the photographs, and the attention span of the gamers.

Ion-beam scanning destroyed the brain a few molecules at a time in order to save it. A beam of charged particles, focused to subcellular precision, burned away the brain tissue. But as it did so it was gathering information about what it was destroying, and storing it to a much higher resolution than could be attained using the older technique. In its essentials it was the same as bologna slicing; it just worked at higher precision. Instead of a heap of paper-thin brain slices, the physical residue was smoke and steam. A higher form of cremation.

“Look,” Corvallis said. “As far as I am concerned, as a nerd who has read about it on the Internet? Yes. Of course. Way better than running it through a deli slicer and taking pictures.”

“I would go further,” El said, “and say that, once we have it up and running, we are done here. Even if we did later invent a higher-resolution system, it would serve no additional purpose. It would be like making a map of the United States at submillimeter scale: no better than a map done at centimeter scale.”

Corvallis broke eye contact and took a swallow of beer. In the last few moments, some kind of emotional sea change had swept over him. He had come to see all this talk of brain scanning as just another tedious detail to be sewn up as quickly as possible, preferably by other people. Two well-funded think tanks full of smart people—WABSI and El Shepherd’s cluster of foundations and startups—seemed to have independently arrived at the conclusion that ion-beam scanning was the be-all and end-all. Cloud computing companies, such as the one Corvallis worked for, had made the long-term storage of the resulting data so cheap and reliable as to be trivial.

So what was there to talk about? As El himself had just said, they were done here.

“What is your objective in coming up to Seattle today?” Corvallis asked him.

“To see to it that Richard Forthrast’s last will and testament—including the health care directive and the disposition of remains—is enforced,” El said.

“You see that as something you have the moral and ethical authority to do?”

“I don’t know anything about the family,” El said. “You are a different matter, C. Even though we haven’t met, I can evaluate who you are based on your track record, your LinkedIn profile. I came into this bar knowing that you and I would be able to have a conversation that was calm and technically well informed.”

“What does that have to do with my question?”

El held up a hand to placate him. Stay with me, bro. “A thought experiment. A man is born into a primitive tribe where medical care is in the hands of witch doctors. Their most advanced therapeutic technology is a rattle. Later he manages to get an education. He moves to London and becomes well-off. He wants to make sure that, if he gets sick, he’ll get the same medical care as anyone else in London. So he writes a health care directive that—never mind the polite language—basically says the following to the doctor. It says, ‘If I get sick and can’t speak for myself, some of my relatives might show up and try to heal me using rattles. They might try to prevent you, the doctors, from giving me the medical care I want. Well, fuck them. Keep them out of my room. They can hang around on the street outside the hospital shaking their rattles all day and all night, but the only people I want inside the room making decisions about medical care are actual doctors and nurses.’ He writes that all up in a form that is completely bombproof from a legal standpoint and he signs and seals it six ways from Sunday and he files it away in a safe place. Now, let’s say that the worst comes to pass and this man does in fact get so sick that he can’t speak for himself anymore. He winds up in the hospital, and sure enough, his relatives show up with their rattles. And not only do they want to stand by his bed and shake their rattles but they want to exclude the doctors and nurses, pull out the IVs, turn off the machines, withdraw the medicine. In that situation, Corvallis, would you say that the doctor has the moral and ethical authority to have security escort the rattle shakers to the exit?”

“So you want to know if Richard’s next of kin are rattle shakers?”

“Yes.”

“And,” Corvallis said, “just to be clear about your analogy—you are the doctor. And the medical care you are talking about is not just normal medical care as we would conventionally understand it, but—”

“But ion-beam scanning of his brain. Yes.”

It was Pascal’s Wager again. El Shepherd was convinced that with the right technology he could make Dodge immortal. That this was what Dodge wanted. And he wasn’t going to let the family stand in the way of carrying out Dodge’s wishes. The stakes were too high.

“Let’s go back to your analogy for a minute,” Corvallis said. “When push comes to shove, the doctor calls security and has the rattle shakers thrown out of the building. What’s your plan, El, if push comes to shove in this case?”

“I would not hesitate to go in front of a judge and seek a court order.”

“Wow.”

“I mean, look. The Forthrast family will be sad and hate me for a while. That is the downside. The upside is—”

“You save Richard’s life. Or his afterlife—whatever you want to call it.”