Chapter 12

DianeJoplinknewstraightawaythatherfather’sdeathwasnoaccident.Shewassureithadsomethingtodowiththesleekblackconsolethatshenowhadinhersilvercarry-onSamsonite.Justthepreviousmorning,beforehehadleftthehousefortheairportandhisflighttoNewYork,hehadetoherroomandwokenherup.Sleepy-eyedshehadstudiedhimfrombehindanunrulyfringeofbrownhair,takingintheold-fashioneddetailofhisEnglishgentleman’stweedjacketwiththeleather-paddedelbows.Hehadlookedeveryinchtheprofessorthathewas.

“Leavingalready,Dad?”she’daskedlanguidly,slowlyproppingherselfontoherelbows.

“Yesangel,dutycalls.YouknowifyougetboredhereyoucaneandjoinmeattheAstoriainNewYork.”

“IknowDad,butyouknowhowmuchIloveNewYork.Not.It’snotateen-friendlycity.”she’dsaidmimickingthevoiceofalecturingadult.

“Andwhichcityisteen-friendlymightIask?”herfatherhaddemandedplayfully.

“Em,L.A.BeverlyHills,evenBoston.”she’djoked.He’dlaughedalongwithherandthenturneddeadserious.

“Angel,there’ssomethingIwantyoutodoforme.Keepthissomewhereinyourroom.”

She’dlookeddownbesidethebedtoseethegrayboxwiththeDHLstickerthatherfatherhadreceivedjustacoupleofdayspreviouslyfromJapan.FromthatKenzoYamamotowhoherfathersaidhedidnotknow.SometotalstrangerinJapanwhohadsentherfatheraputerconsoleandnowhewasdead.Amerecoincidence?Fromthedepthsofhergriefshedidn’tthinkso.

“Whynottakeitwithyou?Youseemquiteengrossedwithit?Iamstartingtogetinsanelyjealous.”

“Youarestreetsahead,whenitestomyaffections.It’stooimportantformetotakeontheroad.KeepitunderyourbeduntilIeback.It’llbesafeinhere.”He’dpushedtheboxunderherfour-posterwithhisleftfootandshe’dseenthemoccasinswiththeleathertasselsandgroanedexaggeratedly.

“Dad,thoseshoesaresooldschool.Youaregivingcredibilitytothemaximthatbaddesignnevergoesoutoffashion.”

“Yourdadisoldschool,very,veryoldschool.I’llleavetheintricaciesoffashiontoyouenlightenedyoungsters,”he’dsaidsmilingandkissedherontheforehead.

“Willmissyoudad,”she’dprotested,playingtheemotionalblackmailcard.

“Willmissyoutoo.Iwillonlybegoneafewdays.Byeangel.Gotaplanetocatch.”He’dturnedaroundandleft,herlastimageofhimwashisbroadshouldersdisappearingthroughthedoorway.

Thosewerethelastwordsherfathersaidtoher.Shehadpackedasuitcaseassoonasshehadputthephonereceiverdownfornootherreasonthanthevoiceinherhead,hermother’s,tellinghertorun.Shewasnottoleavethehouse,theFBImanonthephonehadsaid,tryingtomakeitsoundlikeitwasforhersafety.TheFBIwouldbeovertoquestionherandthehousestaff.

TearsstreameddownherfaceasshetooktheconsoleoutoftheDHLboxandplaceditwithinanestofclothesshe’dhastilygrabbedoutofherwardrobe.Thestrangeblackboxcontainingtheconsoleandtheperipheralslookedliketheharbingerofdeaththatitwas,adarkmysterioussquarethatheldsecretsshewasdeterminedtogettothebottomof.Xybohadsaunteredinandlookedatherthroughdolefuleyesandshe’dswitcheditoffandfoldingitintoitstravelingposture,placeditnexttotheconsoleinthesuitcase.

Herbelovedfatherwasdead.Herfatherwholovedhermorethananyonecouldeverimagine.She’dslippedoutofthehouse,shiveringatitshollowemptyfeel.Thehousewouldneveragainhearthebellowofherfather’svoiceorechothefadedlaughterofhermother,whichthoughlonggonestillresoundedinitsheavilycarpetedcorridors.Shecouldstillsmellhim,thatheadymixtureofcologneandpipetobaccothatbroughtchildhoodmemoriesfloodingback,imagesassharpasapainstakinglyrestoredclassicmovie,threateningtoenvelopeher,drownher.

Hermotherwasstillaliveinthosememories,thefamiliarringofherlaughterinterlacedwiththevisuals.Thosewerethehappydays,atleastassherememberedthem,onthesprawlingMITcampus.Ithadseemedthattherewasasmilingyoungfaceoneverycorner.Infacthundredsoffriendlyeyeslookingdownather,occasionallypattinghershockofcurlybrownhairorpinchinghercheeks,whichusedtogoallwarmandtingly.Itwastheeyesofthestudentsshe’dnoticedthemost,windowsintovibrantsouls.

Herfatherusedtobringhomevariousdevices,puters,PDAs,head-mounteddisplays,andshowthemtoher.Initially,she’dimaginedtheconsolesashavinglittlemeninsidethatmadeallthosepicturesandthosebrightlightsandafterherfatherhadexplainedhowthey’dworkedshecouldclearlyvisualizethelittlebrainsinsidechurningaway.Andshe’dwonderedwhetherputersthoughtlikeshedid,lotsofpicturesjumbledupinthereinherbrainandthevoicestellingherwhattodoandwhattothink.

Shehaddevelopedanaffinityforputersfromanearlyage.Notsomuchinterestedinthemechanicsortechnicalwizardryofthembutintriguedbytheworldsthatlaywithin.Worldsthatjustwentblackwhenyouswitchedthemoffjustlikeitdidwhenhermotherusedtoblowherakissacrossthecoldexpanseofairinherbedroomandflipthelightswitch.Didputersdream?She’dconcludedtheydidwhentheywenttosleepandthatsometimes,likeshedid,theyhadnightmaresandawokewithastartwhenswitchedon.Herfatherhadexplainedtheinnerworkingsbutinherheadshealwaysthoughtofthemasdreaming.“Howdoyouknowtheydon’tdream,dad?”she’daskedandherfatherhadgoneallthoughtfulandhadn’tansweredher.

She’dspentcountlesshoursinherfather’sclutteredden,playingwiththeAIsasherfatherhadreferredtothem.ArtificialIntelligence.Herfatherwasenhancingthemsotheycouldbeemorehuman.She’dmadeuphermindthattheywerealreadyhumanbecausetheyknewsomuch.HerfavoritepastimewasmakingtheAIscontradictthemselvesoraskingthemquestionsthattheycouldnotanswer.Andthenshehadetobelievethattheyweren’thumanafterall.Theywerenotperfect,thoseAIs,buttheycouldfoolmostpeople,mostofthetime.Andtheywerejustexcellentforhomework.

TearswelledupinhereyesassherememberedsittingnexttoherfatherinhisdenwhileheplayedaroundwithcodetomaketheAIsbetter.He’dexplainedthathewastryingtogetthemtopasstheTuringtest,whichmeantDianewouldn’tbeabletofoolthemanymore.Justfivemonthsorsoago,onMay1st,ithadbeenhersixteenthbirthday,andherfatherhadboughtheroneofthoseexpensivemopedsthathadnowheelsyetglidedacrossanysurfacenoproblem.Herfatherhadtriedtoteachherhowtouseitonlytofalloffafteronlyafewseconds.

“Youaretoooldforthis,Dad,”she’dsaidgiggling.Herfatherhadfakedaninjuryrollingaroundontheneatexpanseoftheirfrontlawn.Diane,worriednow,hadrushedtowardshimfearingforhishealth.Thenhehadcaughtherbysurprise,grabbingherbythearmssuddenlyandbringingherdowntoo.Hewasperfectlyfine,justfoolingaroundwithher.

“That’sit,Dad,Iamnotgoingtouniversitynextsummer.I’drathergobackpackingtoAfricaforayearandgoateighteenlikealltheotherstudents.”

Sheknewhowmuchhewantedhertogoandthatwasjustherwayofgettingherownback.ShehadpassedthebackdooruniversityentranceexamstoMITbeforeshe’devengraduatedfromhighschool.Inastrangetwistoffate,itwashermother’sdeaththathadtriggeredherwithdrawalintotheworldofe-booksandonlinedatabases.Losingherselfinaseaofinformationwastheonlywaysheknewhowtoescapethepainofhermother’spassing.

Shehadn’tevenbotheredtotelltheservantsaftershehadhungupthephone,notevenMariatheHispanicmaidwhohadbeenwiththemtenyearsandwasterriblefondofherdadwhowasverylaxonstaffholidaysandherfrequentlyvisitingfriendsandrelatives.Shefeltthatshecouldn’ttrustanyone.Someonehadkilledherfatherandtheonlythingshecouldthinkofwastorunforsomeunknowndestinationuntilthevoicesthatwerenowfightinginherheadsubsided.

Shehadthecreditchipwhichwasgoodforsomeastronomicalamountofmoney.Shehadn’tbotheredtocheckhowmuchbutshehardlyuseditanyway.Andwhataboutherfather’smoney?Hiswill?Thelawyerswouldsortitallout,shethought.Shejustneededtogetoutofthereuntilthecacophonyinherheadsubsided.Ifonlyshecoulddecideonwheretogo.Somewhereanonymous,whereshecouldmakesenseofallthismadnessthathadjusttakenplaceinherlife.

Shehadnoideawhereshe’dgo.ShethoughtofheadingtoHawaiibutthenquicklydiscardedthatideawhensherememberedtheimagesonthenewsofallthoseislandsdisappearingwithoutatrace,takenbyahundred-metertalltsunami.Allthosepeoplewhohaddisappearedbackintotheseawithit.She’dheardofaplacecalledVanuatu,whichwasthissmallrenegadecountrythatdidnotbelongtoanything.Itwassupposedtobeahavenforpeoplewhohadstolencreditfromthesystemandothersubversivetypesthatactuallystolecreditfromthesystemonadailybasis.Therewassomuchcreditinthesystemthoughthattheauthoritiesjustturnedablindeyebecauseitwouldcostmuchmoretoactuallyhirepeopletophysicallygothereandbringthemback.

Thensherecalledthedaytheconsolehadarrivedinthepost.Herfatherhadbeenmoreexcitedthanshe’deverseenhim.ExcitedbythefactthatthepackagewasfromJapan.HerfatherhadopenedthepackageandDianehadbeenalittledisappointed,expectingsomethingthatspoketotheexoticnessofAsia.Itwasjustanotherputerconsolealthoughthisonelookedmoreexpensiveandmoretechnicallysophisticatedthananythingshehadeverseeninherfather’sden.

“It’sfromJapan,”he’dsaidwithuncontrollableexcitement.

“Justanotherconsole,Dad,”she’drepliedasshelefthimtohisnewtoy,driftingtowardsherbedroom.

“Whoisitfrom?”she’daskedwithoutturningback.

“SomeonecalledKenzoYamamoto.Noideawhoheis,”he’dreplied,voicetrailingoff,engrossed.

LaterthateveningwhenMariahadcalledherdownfordinner,herfatherwasstillplayingwiththeputerbutthistimeexcitementhadturnedintoaconcernedlook,thosebushyeyebrowsclosertogetherthanshe’deverseenthem.

“Dinnertime,Dad,”she’dcalledoutonherwaytothediningroom.Thedistractedvoicefloatingback,tellingherthathewouldjoinhersoon.

She’dgonetodinneralone,movingsilentlythroughthehouse,pastthecountlesselectronicbooks,puterdiscsandtheacademictombstones.Xybo,herrobotdog,sensingherpresenceandcuttingshortitsweeklyrechargetofollowherintothediningroom.Thequietwhirofitsmechanicsandthesoundofitsfeetpaddingonthecarpetstrangelyreassuring.

“Nofoodforyoutoday,Xybo,”she’dsaidtotherobotdog,pattingthesensorsonitshead.Thedoghadlookedsodisappointed,eyesmistingover,taildrooping.Shehadnoideawhatmadeitthinkthatitwasarealdogandthatfoodwasanecessity.Itwasacaseofthedesignengineerstakingthingsabittoofarintheirtirelesssearchforauthenticity.YoucouldfeedXyboalrightandhe’dpoopjustlikearealdogthankstoitsABS,orartificialbiologicalsystem.TheproblemwasthatwheneverXybodidhisbusiness,itsmelledworsethantherealthing,apungentunnaturalodorthatonlycouldhavebeenfabricatedinalab.

Arealbreakthroughthey’dsaid.Morelikeadismalfailure.Realdogpoopsmellednothinglikethat.Andsheknewfirsthand.AtBostonZoo,wheretheyhadmanagedtogetholdofsomedogs,mostlyclonedfromaDNAbankdowninCleveland,she’doncesteppedrightintoapileofthestuff.Herfatherhadlookedmorepainedthanshehadandshe’dburstoutlaughing,forgettingforamomenttheinconvenienceofhavingtoremovethehorriblegunkfromhershoes.Herfatherhadjustthrowntheshoesinthelitterbinandpiggybackedherallthewayroundthezoo.Andthatparticularmemorytriggeredhergriefandsheburstintotearsstartlingtheheavilymade-upladyattheticketcounter.

“AreyouOKmydear?”theticketladyaskedwithgenuineconcern.

“I’mfine.Justbrokeupwithmyboyfriendthat’sall.”Dianewassurprisedattheeasewithwhichshetoldthelie,regurgitatingthevoice’son-the-spotfabricationwordforword.

“Menarethescumoftheearth,letmetellyouthat.Don’tworry,you’llfindsomeonemuchbetterthanhim,”theattendantsympathized,flashingDianeageneroussmile.Shehadalargegapinherteeththatsomehowmadehermoreattractive.

“Thanks,”wasallDianecouldmusterasshehandedtheladyhercreditandimmigrationchips.

“Andwherewouldyoulikeyourticketfor?”theladyasked.

“I’dliketogetonyourearliestflighttoTokyo.”

“Tokyo?Japan?”

“Yes,”shewhispered.

“OneticketforJAL.Checkinganythingin?”

“No.”

Shewasn’tgoingtolettheSamsoniteandtheconsoleoutofhersight.Itwasthekeytoherfather’sdeath.Andshe’dbedamnedifshewasgoingtoloseitinsomedodgybaggagehandlingsystemortoahandlerwithstickyfingers.ShewasgoingtoJapanandallthistimethatdecisionhadalreadybeenmadeforherdeepwithinhersubconscious.