The Pinocchio Syndrome

The trash-management job was not very high paying, and was certainly not fun. It was pure drudgery. You assayed the vast quantities of trash, looking for markers that had been agreed upon in the current quarter to identify outmoded files to be trashed. When you found a file that wasn’t clearly marked you saved it in a special quadrant and queried the departments involved. Usually it took them days to answer you, for the scientists looked upon the computers as their slaves, and the computer techs as idiots. Sometimes you had to send a dozen memos before they bothered to acknowledge you.

Of course you had to clear every major decision with Security. The Corporation faced stiff competition from other companies around the country and overseas. The research files were a key target, and computer invasion was the preferred line of attack. A computer security firm revamped the entire system every three months, and their staffers were always available for advice or clarification.

Damian was drinking his ninth Coke of the day and listening to Metallica through his earphones when he found the file with the strange name. Project 4. He had never seen it before.

He held the file and tried searching through various sectors of the database for the name. A drug? A chemical? No dice. No trace of it anywhere.

He didn’t trash it. He was paid to always hold back until he got confirmation.

Out of curiosity he tried to open the file. A message appeared on the screen:

THE FILE YOU HAVE TRIED TO OPEN REQUIRES SECURITY CLEARANCE. PLEASE TYPE IN YOUR NAME AND DESIGNATION.

Shrugging, Damian did as he was told.

PLEASE WAIT FOR SECURITY ACKNOWLEDGMENT, said another message.

Damian turned up the music and waited, sipping at his Coke. It was lunchtime, and he was hungry. He had a date to go out for lunch with one of the girls from the front office, a girl who was too new to know about Damian yet. Had she had one more week she would have been warned off him, but he had gotten to her while she was new.

Personally he didn’t think he was that strange. True, he had certain tastes in food and music that made others uneasy. But he led a comparatively normal life, and he didn’t want anything sexual that was different from what anybody else wanted. He still didn’t understand why that girl Cynthia, from accounting, had taken such a dislike to him on their one date. She had bad-mouthed him to everybody within shouting distance. In a company of this size, that was quite damaging.

He waited in front of the screen, sighing, listening to his stomach grumble. This had to be an error. They had probably misnamed the file.

He finally decided to get a bag of potato chips from the machine next door. He would simply leave the computer waiting. It would only be a minute or less.

He got up, still wearing his earphones, and went to the door. It opened before he could touch the knob. A man in civilian clothes – dark suit, tie, brown shoes – stood in the doorway.

The man said something, but Damian couldn’t hear him because of the music.

‘What?’ Damian asked, pulling one of the buds from his ear.

‘Are you Damian?’ asked the man. Damian noticed now that he wasn’t wearing a company badge.

‘Yeah. What can I do for you?’

‘You found a file?’

‘Yeah.’ Damian turned to gesture at the screen. ‘Can’t open it. Never saw the name before. Are you security?’

‘Yes.’

The man had closed the door with a glance into the corridor.

‘Show me,’ he said.

‘Here.’ Damian leaned over the screen. ‘Look for yourself. It’s not in any of the directories.’

The man leaned over Damian’s shoulder. He gave off a faint scent of aftershave and tobacco. The name ‘Project 4’ was in the middle of the screen.

‘Are you sure?’ the man asked. ‘Did you try QPC?’

Damian laughed. ‘What’s QPC?’

But the man’s arm had curled around Damian’s neck while he was turning to ask the question. The breath was squeezed out of Damian’s body. He felt his muscles tense, his arms and legs flailing this way and that. Then there was a sharp crack! as the arm broke his neck, and a spreading red wave swept over his vision, blinding him.

He was dead before he hit the floor.

15

November 28

The subject was in a traditional hospital bed set up in a special room full of monitors, not terribly different from a room for a patient on the critical list in any modern intensive care unit. Monitors for the usual vital signs – blood pressure, respiration, pulse rate, and so on – were against the walls, connected to the subject by wires. In addition, however, there were more sophisticated machines that monitored less obvious physical processes. There were also video cameras timed to keep a constant watch on the subject’s physical appearance.

Two men in white coats were standing beside the bed. Both wore stethoscopes. The younger man had surgical gloves on.

‘How are we doing?’ the older man asked.

‘Vital signs slowly decreasing,’ the other man said. ‘He’s in coma now. Respiration shallow, heart rate uneven. I suspect heart failure may be the proximate cause of death.’

‘Other vital signs?’

‘Liver and kidney function well below normal. Hematocrit reflecting cellular and other changes.’

‘What about the EEG?’

The younger man held up a printout. ‘Brain waves are our best signature,’ he said. ‘The spikes and valleys form a definite pattern that never seems to vary. It’s clearly not a healthy pattern, yet it’s quite consistent.’

The older man looked for himself. ‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘I wonder what’s going on in there. What kind of mentation, if any.’

‘There’s no evidence of any sense perception,’ the younger man said. ‘No response to sound, touch, or anything else.’

‘But there was in the early phase.’

‘Oh, yes.’ The younger man nodded. ‘Perception was virtually normal at that point. As to what kind of thinking went on, that we can’t measure, because the subject is paralyzed by the changes.’

‘How does he fit the time frame?’

‘From intake? A textbook case,’ the younger man said. ‘The onset of symptoms was within twelve to fifteen hours. Then the first phase of the syndrome lasted pretty much unchanged for about two to three weeks. Then we had the dramatic dip in brain function, leading to coma after another week. The first physical changes didn’t occur until coma was well under way.’

‘I find that fascinating,’ the older man said. ‘How do you account for it?’

‘I can’t,’ replied the younger man. ‘Not even our own research explains the details of it. The precise curve of the paralysis, the changes at the cellular level, and their sequelae – it will take a lot of research to objectify all that.’

‘Well,’ the older man said thoughtfully, ‘that’s the way it goes sometimes. Most of the time, in fact. Psychiatrists never did understand why shock treatment works as it works. Most drugs, too – you get your desired result, you watch for side effects, and sometimes you never know the real mechanism.’

The younger man nodded. ‘In any case, we’re seeing a great consistency in the timing of the onset and progress. Almost like clockwork. Faster in children, somewhat faster in women.’

‘Let’s look at the main map.’

The younger man turned on a video monitor connected to a mainframe computer. A special program had been designed to assay the various tissue groups, always with specific reference to one molecular factor. The present display showed the bone marrow.

‘As you see,’ the doctor said, pointing to the screen, ‘our change is in place.’

‘Excellent,’ the older man observed.

‘The modifications are reflected clearly at the cellular level. You can’t entirely extrapolate from this to the symptoms – our knowledge doesn’t extend that far – but a glance at the numbers makes it obvious. The body is giving itself different instructions. The cells are trying to follow them, but of course the body isn’t made to do that. So you have massive dysfunction, starting at the cognitive level and spreading through all the systems.’

‘I see.’ The older man looked from the screen to the experimental subject in the bed. ‘The skeletal was affected from the start, but not visible until now.’

‘That’s correct. The biopsies we did on this subject made that very clear.’

‘Fascinating,’ the older man said. ‘The mystery of life.’

‘Yes, sir. Life’s attempt to adjust itself to changes.’

‘Kind of makes you wonder whether there is a God after all,’ the older man said. ‘Only a transcendent power could design something so subtle.’

The younger man nodded a bit uncomfortably.

The older man pointed to the sheet. ‘Let’s have a closer look.’

The younger man pulled the sheet up from one side, folding it over the subject’s chest. The left hand was revealed, grossly distended and already considerably distorted. The skin was darkened, and already harder than healthy cartilage.

The older man lifted the arm from the elbow to get a better look. The fingers were still identifiable, though they were losing definition. What had once been the fingernails seemed to have fused with the hardened skin tissue.

‘Amazing,’ the older man said. ‘Like chitin, isn’t it?’

‘To the touch, yes,’ the younger man said. ‘But the cell structure is closer to what we see in human bone or cartilage.’

‘An amazing effect,’ the older man said. ‘Let’s see the foot.’

He bent to look at the left foot, whose distention and distortion exceeded that of the hand. The toes were enlarged, hardened, and beginning to lose definition. The heel and toes were being pulled together by the progressive deformation, fusing gradually into a single hard platform.

‘Pretty clear morphological difference from the hand,’ the older man said.

‘Definitely,’ nodded his companion. ‘Just as you will see a differentiation in any hoofed animal from the rear to the front.’

The older man tapped the sole of the foot with his knuckle. A dry, hollow sound emerged.

‘Fascinating,’ the man observed, ‘how consistent it is, from subject to subject.’

‘Oh, yes. It never varies. It’s the signature of the syndrome,’ the younger man said. ‘Quite amazing.’

The older man smiled. ‘I wonder what they’ll call it,’ he said. ‘When they get around to it.’

The younger man shrugged. ‘That’s not my department.’

‘I hope they pick something with a little poetry in it,’ the older man said with a smile. ‘Something people will remember.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The younger man nodded a bit weakly.

‘By the way,’ the older man said, ‘I heard we had a small accident yesterday.’

‘That’s right.’ His companion nodded. ‘It was a computer glitch. One of the special files leaked out into the network.’

‘What was the young man’s name again?’

‘Lightfoot. Damian Lightfoot.’

‘He wasn’t security, was he?’

‘No, sir. Just a computer tech. Trash management. He reported the file because he wasn’t familiar with the name.’

‘No problem about disposal?’ the older man asked. ‘Family? Colleagues?’

‘Security took care of it already. There won’t be a body. He simply disappeared.’

‘Good.’ The older man was shaking his head. ‘But we can’t allow leaks, no matter how small. I want the system redesigned immediately. An accident like that should have been discovered within the loop. Company population is just as dangerous as general population.’ He gave the younger man a sharp look. ‘Get on it with your people this afternoon.’

‘I’ll do that, sir.’

The older man stood looking at the subject in the bed. His frown faded, eclipsed by his enthusiasm for the project.

‘Something with poetry,’ he repeated. ‘Like the Black Plague …’

16

The White House

November 28

A meeting was held Monday evening in the Oval Office.

Present were the president and his top aides, along with chief of staff Dick Livermore, who had been the president’s campaign manager in the general election two years ago. Also present were the party chairman and the majority leader.

The president greeted those present with an uncharacteristically grave face.

‘I know you’re all concerned first and foremost about Danny,’ he said. ‘I saw him this afternoon at Walter Reed, and I spoke at some length with Dr Isaacson. There isn’t any good news to report. Danny’s condition hasn’t improved. His vital signs are still okay, but mentally he’s nonfunctional.’

The president had taken off his suit jacket and was resting his muscular forearms on the table. He did not like jackets or long-sleeved shirts; they made him feel constrained. For nearly twenty years his campaign ads had shown him in short-sleeved shirts with his tie loosened. Though some thought it was a PR gimmick intended to make him look hardworking, the fact was he actually dressed that way.

In answer to the polite murmurs of inquiry from those present, the president shook his head.

‘I think we’d better look to the bottom line on this,’ he said. ‘There may be hope for Danny from a medical viewpoint, but even if he gets better, this episode will be too great a negative for us to overcome, given the polls and our other problems.’

The chief PR consultant raised a hand. ‘I’m afraid you’re right,’ he said. ‘The media are already on to the fact that Danny is catatonic. We couldn’t overcome that in a fight against Goss.’

The president nodded. ‘The first order of business, then, is for me to choose someone else as soon as decently possible. With Goss gaining in the polls we can’t let the grass grow under our feet.’

It was well known that the president loathed Colin Goss and would do anything in his power to keep Goss out of the White House. The president couldn’t say anything publicly about Goss at this sensitive time, but he had told more than one close associate that he believed Goss was a potential Hitler. ‘If he ever gets into the Oval Office,’ he once said, ‘he’ll make Nixon look like a wise king.’

A few moments were spent discussing when and how to announce the dropping of Dan Everhardt as vice president and the selection of a replacement. Then the real problem came to the fore. Who could replace Everhardt?

The president turned the floor over to Bob Corrigan, the party chairman.

‘I have a list here,’ Bob said. ‘We’ve gone over this with the president already, but I want your collective take on it. I give the names in no particular order.’ He cleared his throat a bit nervously. ‘The first is Kirk Stillman.’

‘Isn’t he too old?’ someone said.

There was a silence. Kirk Stillman was one of the most distinguished statesmen alive. A cabinet officer under three presidents and currently ambassador to the United Nations, Stillman was the Averell Harriman of his time. A specialist in foreign policy with superb contacts in all the major European governments, Stillman was all but indispensable to his party.

But Stillman was sixty-four years old, and looked it. With his silver hair and elder-statesman demeanor, he seemed more an icon of the past than a leader for the future.

‘He’s respected,’ someone said unenthusiastically.

‘But he’s a little too old.’ It was Bob Corrigan who said this. ‘It would send the wrong message.’

Heads nodded in agreement. Stillman was associated in the public mind with the policies of the past. Policies that had failed to anticipate or prevent the current crisis.

After a few minutes Stillman was ruled out. Though he would make a superb vice president and could, in a pinch, ably take over as an interim president, he would be a public relations liability. The president needed a nominee with a more aggressive image. Someone younger, stronger.

‘The next name,’ Corrigan said, ‘is Cary Hunsecker.’

There was a beat of silence.

‘He’s a good man,’ someone said.

‘Solid,’ echoed another voice.

Those present seemed troubled. There was good reason for this. Cary Hunsecker, serving his second term as governor of Rhode Island, had the image of strength and dash that a man like Kirk Stillman lacked. An avid sailboater who had competed in the Americas Cup and nearly won, Hunsecker was tanned and handsome.

But Hunsecker had sexual skeletons in his closet. His marriage to the daughter of a wealthy Rhode Island industrialist was emotionally barren. Hunsecker had had many affairs over the years, and showed a preference for younger females. A former campaign worker had threatened to file a paternity suit against him a decade ago, but had been talked out of it by influential Hunsecker friends.

So far the public knew nothing of this aspect of Hunsecker’s life. But it would be foolish to suppose Hunsecker could face the cruel spotlight of the media as a potential vice president without having his past exposed. The press was not as easy to manipulate today as it had been a generation ago. The experiences of Bill Clinton, Bob Livingston, and others left no doubt about this.

‘Too dangerous,’ said someone. Heads nodded in assent. Hunsecker was out.

‘Okay,’ Corrigan said. ‘Before I proceed to the next name, I wonder if any of you has a suggestion.’

‘What about Mike Campbell?’ one of the staffers threw in.

‘In eight years,’ someone replied immediately.

‘I’m not so sure,’ the staffer said. ‘He’s solid with the public, and he’s got so many positives …’

‘You mean the Olympics?’ someone asked. Michael Campbell’s heroism in winning two Olympic gold medals despite serious back problems was universally known.

‘And his wife,’ someone else added. Susan Campbell was the darling of American women. No other American politician had a wife whose own popularity could help as much at the polls.

‘She could detract just by being so visible,’ a third voice added. ‘And don’t forget, they’re childless. That could be a negative at this level.’

‘Yeah, but she’s kept her figure.’

‘I’ll take that negative any time.’ Laughter greeted this remark.

The president was shaking his head. ‘Goss would label him a punk,’ he said. ‘I don’t think we could get away with it.’

His comment brought general assent. Michael Campbell was simply too young to take over as vice president. His youth would be perceived as a weakness, and would be sold that way by the Goss forces. The nominee had to project strength, experience, and wisdom.

‘I like Mike,’ said the president, ‘but putting him up too early might be as bad for his future as for us. It’s too risky.’

Heads nodded in agreement. Campbell was out.

‘There is only one name left,’ Corrigan said tiredly. ‘Tom Palleschi.’

The others brightened. Tom Palleschi was the current secretary of the interior and former governor of Pennsylvania. Palleschi had been a cabinet officer under two presidents, one from each party. That was part of his appeal, the fact that he had served both parties successfully over the years. He got along with everybody, was a hard worker, and enjoyed excellent popularity with the public.

Another plus for Palleschi was that he was a self-made multimillionaire in business. He had built his father’s one-man metalworking business into a precision tool empire before selling it to a German consortium when he first went into politics. He could credibly compare his own business experience to that of Colin Goss. No one could accuse Palleschi of being a bleeding heart.

Palleschi was a strong man of fifty-two with lively salt-and-pepper hair, a thick wrestler’s body, and a winning smile. He could be seen jogging around Washington every morning from six to seven, sometimes with a friend or colleague but often alone. A few years ago he had endorsed an orthopedically advanced running shoe in a series of TV commercials, donating the money he made to a children’s hospital in his hometown of Scranton.

Had it not been for the great popularity of Dan Everhardt, Tom Palleschi might have been the president’s choice for his running mate five years ago. True, Palleschi was a bit too ethnic in his appeal. A Catholic, he was the father of six children and devoted a lot of his time to Italian-American causes. Not that this was a serious negative, but it did limit his performance in the demographic polls. He was a bit more popular with ethnic minorities than with WASPs. He knew little about terrorism and was not thought of as politically ‘tough.’ He was a peacemaker, appealing but not quite as forceful as the party would have liked.

Palleschi would make a fine choice to replace Dan Everhardt. He projected not only wisdom and experience, but also physical strength – a necessity at this moment when fear of illness was sweeping the nation.

‘I like this choice,’ said Corrigan.

‘So do I,’ the president agreed. ‘I’ve worked with Tom in the past, and he’s steady as a rock.’

These remarks brought general assent. Tom Palleschi was like another Dan Everhardt, but with a slightly different profile. He looked the part of a popular vice president. He also looked the part of president of the United States, if one added a brush stroke or two to his image.

Best of all, there was not a breath of scandal about Palleschi. His business career was spotless, and so was his personal life. He was faithful to his wife and devoted to his family.

For the next twenty minutes Palleschi’s strengths and weaknesses were weighed by those present. But the palpable air of relief in the room left little doubt he would be the president’s choice. A good choice.

‘Let’s float it around town,’ the president concluded. ‘Meanwhile I’ll call Tom and bring him in.’

On this note the meeting ended. The White House strategists were pleased. It was possible to chalk off Dan Everhardt’s illness as a medical emergency and a personal tragedy. But Everhardt’s loss need not cripple the administration. Palleschi made up for Everhardt.

That is, assuming Palleschi accepted the job.

17

Manchester, New Hampshire

November 28

The health authorities in Adelaide refused to talk to Karen, despite her recommendation from Dr Roper in the outback. They seemed cold and evasive, and distinctly unhappy to have heard from her.

This made her next mission all the more important. She retraced the route of her daylong flight to Australia, with one key difference. Instead of returning to Washington she flew to Boston and took a commuter flight to New Hampshire.

The connection she was pursuing was tenuous. Tenuous enough, she hoped, that the American authorities would not have followed it up yet. It came from an online service she subscribed to that collected police reports on homicides, suicides, and unexplained deaths from all over the United States. The deaths were cross-indexed under various headings, including parts of the body. Karen’s routine search of ‘hands and feet’ had rung a bell in New Hampshire.

She was right. When she arrived at the small city hall office of the chief medical examiner, she found him willing to talk about the body that had been discovered a few days earlier, and even willing to show it to her.

His name was Dr Waterman, and he was surprisingly young and handsome. She saw photographs of an attractive wife and two young daughters on the bookshelf behind his desk. He offered her coffee, but she refused.

‘I’ve been on airplanes most of the last few days,’ she said. ‘I’ve had enough coffee to last me a year.’

‘I was thinking that you looked tired,’ the doctor smiled. ‘I kind of assumed you journalists don’t get a lot of sleep.’

‘That depends on the journalist,’ Karen said. ‘As for myself, I don’t sleep much. You’re right on that score.’

‘I sleep almost eight hours a night,’ he said. ‘No medical examiner is in a great hurry to get to his office in the morning, as you might imagine.’

‘Tell me about the body we talked about on the phone,’ Karen said.

‘It’s strictly a John Doe,’ he said. ‘No trace of identification. The few distinguishing marks, moles and such, were no help. We took impressions of the teeth and sent them off to the computers, but there wasn’t a match.’

‘Who found the body?’

‘A local homeless man named Erroll. A mental patient who was thrown out on the street when they cut back at the state hospital. He found the body in a Dumpster. At first the police weren’t inclined to believe him. He’s severely delusional, very florid. He thinks Martians are sending messages through his skin, stuff like that. But the body was right where he said it was. When the cops saw the deformations, they called me right away.’